Excuses For Why We Failed at Love
by Scripturiens
Summary: Thirty excuses for why we failed at love. [Mimato]
1. Caro Padre

**Author's Note:** Expanded project out of vignette by the same name, thirty excuses why Yamato and Mimi failed at love.

The title is a referrence to Deaf Havana's "Caro Padre".

* * *

_The men in my family are cursed._

* * *

The place was almost silent, the remnants of their screaming match lingering in the air. His breathing was hitched, then flat as he breathed in the poison in his cigarettes as though he intended to have them kill him right there. Hers, on the other hand, was ragged, constantly interrupted by half-smothered sobs that made him breathe in faster, for a longer time.

"I can't do this anymore," she finally murmured, her face buried in her hands. Yamato turned his face away, releasing a steady stream of smoke and refusing to meet her eye.

"I tried," he croaked out. "You can't possibly know how much…"

Mimi looked up. There were tearstreaks down her cheeks and her mascara had long since betrayed her. Her bottom lip trembled, pale, as she spoke.

"It shouldn't have been so difficult," she told him, gathering fists of her skirt. "You always made it sound like it was such an _effort_ to love me," her eyes burned the back of his neck, "—like I should be _grateful_ you even _tried_."

His gaze slipped towards her, cold and resentful. She was just trying to hurt him now, he was sure of it. Knowing it did nothing to assuage him; it still bothered him that even when he could see her doing it, it still worked. There was a moment, before he spoke, where he imagined Mimi blonder, older, carrying a small child — and he wondered if this was what Hiroaki had felt when Natsuko broke his heart.

"It wasn't like that. I thought you knew."

"I was never important enough," she continued, as though she hadn't heard him, but he had long given up on trying to make her listen. Perhaps that had been part of the problem.

"You matter to me, Mimi," he murmured, but the hollow tone in his voice couldn't even convince himself.

She paused near the door, looking at him over her shoulder. "That's not enough, Yamato. You of all people should know that."

Once, his father had told him not to fall in love with her. _She reminds me too much of your mother,_ he had said.

Yamato watched her leave. The cigarette spent itself between his fingers and he took one last drag before tossing it over the rail, knowing in his heart it couldn't have ended any other way.

_We were doomed from the start_.


	2. Apologies

_I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you._

* * *

They say that there are three sides to a story.

Hers, which tells of easy-to-rise anger bubbling just beneath the surface, always ready to yell abuse. In this he expects her to scream, throw things at him, raise her tiny hands in tiny fists and try to reach him, but he is stunned by her icy silence. After months of fighting for a relationship that was falling apart at the very seams, he thinks she'd at least have something to say.

"Mi-rin," he says, and her lower lip trembles before she steels herself against his voice.

This is what he thinks happened.

His speaks of a hard-to-follow line, too many corn mazes, too many puzzles and _bon_ lights and wayward spirits that cannot find their way back home. Her eyes are the colour of rust, dull and lifeless. This is not the person he fell in love with. He can see the tears in her eyes, how his Mimi is going to cry and though he has spent the last few weeks aching for her, seeing her so close to tears and so distraught shores him more than she could have hoped.

"You don't get to call me that."

Desperate, Yamato reaches out, holding her wrist between his long fingers, stunned once more as she rejects him with such vice.

This is what he wishes had happened.

He always imagined what it must be like, to watch Love walk away and leave the door open. The silence that follows the slam that shakes its frame, the walls and him reverberates inside his ribs.

"I'm sorry," he says, but Love is already gone.

This is the truth.


	3. Before the Altar

_My mother walked away with my brother once; I don't think I was ever the same._

* * *

He stood rigidly, uncomfortably hot in the black suit he wore. His smile, when it came, was slow and deliberate. Like the best man that he was, Yamato waited patiently for the ceremony to commence. Before him stood Takeru, his mouth slightly parted and his eyes shining with unbridled emotion as he stared ahead of him. He wanted to laugh, bitterly at that, but one look at her was enough to steal the breath out of him.

She was wearing all white. Her gown was flawless on her, long and clinging mercilessly to her body, growing wide near her feet to give the illusion of a perfect mermaid tail. It was funny, because he had always imagined Mimi in a long, trailing princess gown whenever he did picture her in white.

He had loved her so much back then – still did. But he travelled too much and was always too shy to ask her to come with, too proud to admit that he wanted her to stay by his side forever. The distance grew between them until it was more than miles, and hours, and time-zones. And in his cold absence, she fell in love with someone else.

Which brought him to the present, standing before the bride and groom-to-be, hands clasped together to keep from wringing the little git's neck as he married the woman of his dreams. The irony was almost enough to make him want to cry, or laugh, or run out of the place without looking back. Twice now, he had been left by the women who should have loved him most, in favour of his little brother, who was everything Yamato should have been.


	4. Bruises

_No, I love you. I just don't know how to not make you cry. _

* * *

Even after years of knowing her, the sight of her eyes shining still shored him more than he cared to admit. There was something so inherently _wrong_ with Mimi crying, and knowing that he was the cause of her tears never failed to floor him.

There was that time, on her birthday, when he had slept right through the whole party; by the time he'd woken up he had figured it was too late to call and rolled over to go back to bed. She had cried all night, as evidenced by her red-rimmed eyes the next day. Then there was that one time he'd gone out with another girl (_"We were on a break,"_ he'd argued) and brought her along to Taichi's birthday party. She hadn't wailed as they had expected her to, but he later found out from Miyako that she had locked herself in the bathroom for an hour before she finally left.

Those were the big things, but they were not the important ones. It was the little things he did, like saying he'd call her and forgetting; making dates and then cancelling without letting her know first; slamming the door after he left each one of their arguments; refusing to apologise for those little trespasses. It was how she'd wait up for him and then he'd come into her bed, drunk and stumbling to wake her up with urgent hands and lips. He would whisper he loved her and she'd say she loved him too. But the next night, he'd make her wait again.

Once, Mimi had told him she was utterly unafraid of loving him with all her heart. He politely asked her not to, telling her it was better to love him with measure. He hadn't known it then, but it had wounded her deeper than he ever intended. And now she asked what he wanted from her and he did not know how to tell her _everything_ without being selfish. He saw the tears pooling in her eyes and it pained him that he would not to reach out to touch her.

Yamato had always loved her and tried so hard not to hurt her, but had long since forgotten how to do one without the other.


	5. Jagged Glass

_I don't know how to love broken things._

* * *

In the months leading to their imminent separation, Yamato spent more and more time on his own. But what upset her, truly, was that he thought she did not notice. But the more she leaned into him, the more forcefully did he pull away. This was not new. This was the way their whole relationship had been – Yamato pulling away and Mimi chasing after him, forcing him to make the choices he was afraid to make.

He sat on the floor, his back resting against the padded wall behind him. Mimi looked at him from the door, eyes hard but shining with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I never thought that by trying to be with you I was _hurting_ you so much – I never _knew, _Yama."

"You think you did this to me?" he asked, his voice more callous than he'd intended to make it sound. He was pointing at himself, his hands gesturing towards his body. "No, Mimi. This started _way_ before you even came along. Don't try to take _all_ the credit."

"Is this about your parents?" she asked, lips pursed and hands balled into fists on her sides.

"No. And _shut up_ about them, we're not discussing that, _ever_."

"And why not?" she demanded, ignoring the sting in her chest at being treated thus. "We _never_ talk about them, Yamato. Maybe we should've because _clearly_, you're not over it."

"I'm not having this conversation," he croaked. "If you want to leave, then leave. But don't throw that type of thing to my face."

"How did it end, _hm?_ Did they cut you loose? _Tragic_ Yamato, hurt one too many times. You just can't stop feeling bad for yourself. You can't _stop_ being the victim." She angrily rubbed her eyes, voice trembling with anger and hurt and something else she could not quite name. "I am so tired of this, so … _tired_."

Yamato had his head bowed between his knees, eyes closed and ears ringing against her words. She was trying to wound him, he knew. She was succeeding, too, and she knew that as well as he did. "Don't pretend you're so untouched," he said, his voice ringing loudly around them. "I'm not the one who's a fucking _tragedy_. At least I _decided_ to do this. You, on the other hand—," he raised his head, "you don't even know what the _fuck_ you want. Not with me, not with anyone."

"It's a good thing you make your own decisions, then," she retorted. "Pushing me away when I'm the _only_ one who's come to find out what's become of you is a _really fucking good one_."

His eyes burned into hers, and she could feel her resolve faltering because she wanted to go over and comfort him but their words had been too callous, too venomous and there was something sick and festering between them.

"You're a coward, Mimi," he said, getting to his feet and leaning with his shoulder against the wall, sure that he'd fall on his arse if he didn't. "You came here to find out if I would blame you for _this_," he said, "But I don't. _You_ could never do this to _me_."

Mimi took a deep breath, unable to stop the tears from leaking out of her eyes, hot and burning like scalding water. "Stop it, Yama," she begged, "_please._" And then, because she couldn't bear not to, Mimi closed the distance between them, taking his face between her hands and _making_ him look down at her. "I'm so sorry," she murmured, feeling the man she had tried to love softening between her fingers, succumbing to a heartbreaking sigh as he pressed his forehead to hers. "I'm so sorry, Yama."

With trembling fingers, he pushed himself away.

"It's not your fault," he breathed. "I'm not fit for you, Mi. I'm sorry for that, too."

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to take his hand and tell him she'd try harder, that she could handle him at his worst if he promised to try to get better, but they both knew that she would not. So she touched his cheek with a pale hand, her heart protesting when he closed his eyes and turned his face to kiss her open palm.

She would think about him later, cleaning up her flat. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed with red but she had stopped crying a while ago. And as she gathered his things, she dropped a picture frame, the glass shattering on the floor before she could try to salvage it. Mimi carefully gathered the pieces, cutting her hands many times before she could get all the pieces and dumped them unceremoniously in the wastebasket. Her hands throbbed with tiny wounds and she washed the blood away, like it was nothing at all.


	6. Parallels

_We are not your parents._

* * *

It wasn't the constant bickering that got to her – that was actually the _fun_ part of their relationship. She liked being challenged, liked that he did not shy away from an opportunity to tell her she was wrong and force her to look her mistakes in the eye; fix them. What got to her was that he could do that and then be completely _hypocritical_ about his own.

Mimi didn't like bringing up the subject of his parents' divorce, but it was something that lingered in the back of her mind, a dark spot that grew larger and larger as time went by and she was met with one refusal after another. It had been fine when they were young and careless, too busy being all over each other to mind about the things that were underneath. But as the years went by and their relationship reached that strange, stagnant point – all their friends seemed to be getting married, or having children, or moving on with their lives – Mimi became increasingly anxious about their own future together.

After Takeru and Hikari announced their wedding, things could only get worse. Her insistence in knowing their plans, his reluctance in answering, negating the existence of a serious, adult relationship between them. He spent more time away, locked himself at work, involved in all sorts of projects that did not include her. It wasn't another woman; she knew that, but it did nothing to assuage her desperation.

Of course she would be the one to catch the bouquet. But instead of it filling her with hope, she felt nothing but despair as she saw the indifferent look in his eyes before he turned his back on the spectacle. She laughed, her eyes shining with tears that to everyone else looked like unbridled emotion and excitement. She drank, generously. And all the while, she grazed the pink and white bouquet with trembling fingers. Hours later, she'd still be holding on to it.

"I wouldn't have chosen roses," she murmured, her voice strange and loud in the silence of their hotel room.

"Hm?"

"It would've been peonies, I think. Maiden-hair fern and those – those funny little leaves, the velvety ones? It would've been _precious_."

Yamato stared at her, undoing the cuffs of his dress shirt slowly. Mimi looked back, placing the bouquet on the dresser.

"But if it had been you," her voice was quieter, "I would've gone with a sheaf of miniature white calla lilies," she looked up. "Simple, elegant. Like you."

"Mimi." His voice was quiet, careful. He looked at her from behind a curtain of thick lashes, one eyebrow raised.

"You don't want to marry me."

The admission was met with silence, with Yamato looking at her with unblinking, stark blue eyes. "Is this what you want to do? Tonight?" he asked. "We've been over this, Mi. I don't – I don't think marriage is for me."

"You can't know that, Yamato. My mother—,"

"We're not like _them_, Mi," he interrupted her. "I am not like Keisuke, whose very existence revolves around his _wife_ and _child_." The words were almost spat, and Mimi's honey-coloured eyes were round, bright and shining.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" she asked. "What's wrong with wanting a wife, and children — _a family?_"

Yamato stared at her, hard. She was bringing up old wounds, things that he had thought he'd left behind. But Takeru had taken Hikari for a wife and his parents had been there and she had caught that bloody bouquet and now - and now, Yamato felt he was falling apart at the very seams.

"I didn't have one then, and I don't want one now. It's really simple, but I don't expect _you_ to understand." His voice was cold, unnecesarily so. But instead of flinching under his gaze, Mimi drew herself higher, her chin raised and her eyes hard and unforgiving.

"Is that what you think of me?" she asked, her voice too low for him to ignore. "I am _not_ your mother, Yamato; I won't _leave_ you."

"I'm not saying you are," he said, voice flat and cold.

"No, that's _exactly_ what you're saying."

"I'm saying you can do whatever you want, Mimi," he snapped, "—just leave me out of it."

She opened her mouth but closed it without another word. He could tell it was killing her, keeping whatever she wanted to say in, but he did not encourage her to speak up, knowing they could only degrade into a fully-fledged fight at this point. They went through the motions swiftly but the silence between them grew and stretched and he didn't think he could stand to lie in the same bed with her and know she'd turn her back to him. He prolonged the moment, staying in the bath way more than he needed to, until his skin was pink and raw and the water had long gone cold.

He shouldn't have been surprised, he would later reflect. The bed was made, her suitcase gone. The damned bouquet was where she had left it but there was a note, too, written in the standard stationery issued by the hotel; he would've recognised her thin handwriting anywhere.

_It didn't matter to me, if you never proposed. I just needed to know you'd always want this, us. That's what it meant to me._

And then, as if she had trembled when writing it:

_Sorry if I am like her._

He held the note between trembling fingers; fought the instinct to run out and catch her. Yamato was Hiroaki's son just as much as she was Satoe's daughter and he would not run after her, because he knew that if he did, she would come back. And he could not bear to do that to her.

"You are nothing like her," he whispered, though no-one was there to hear him.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I think I should mention that these stories probably all happen in different universes, which is why facts and attitudes may change substantially from one to the other (while still staying true to their personalities, I'd hope). As always, thanks for reading and following (and reviewing, if you've done that too!).


	7. In vino veritas

**Author's Note:** As always, thank you for reading.

**In vino veritas:** Latin for _"in wine there is truth"_.

* * *

_You never learned how to hold me right._

* * *

They hadn't seen each other in months, and as they predicted, that first time was mortifyingly awkward. He had leaned in for a hug, she had attempted a handshake and both ended up bumping shoulders and noses and muttering half-arsed apologies while silently cursing the other for being such a klutz. It was her first time back in Japan since she had left for a specialization in French cuisine and enology, and as luck would have it, he had been the only one free to get her at the airport. Mimi had appreciated the intention, but she couldn't help but think she would have been better off going by train. One look at the sour blond behind her cemented this thought.

Outside, the weather had turned ugly. The light snow that had been falling when he had arrived had by now deteriorated into nothing short of a blizzard, and Yamato groaned as he saw his car, half buried in snow. He took her luggage and hurled it in the trunk, closing it with a loud thud.

"It's pointless," he said. "We can't leave until the snow stops."

Mimi sighed, knowing she could hardly complain. It wasn't his fault that she was tired, wrinkly and jetlagged. Despite keeping herself hydrated during her flight, Mimi was feeling bloated and disoriented since she had arrived and knew it would only get better after a shower and a decent night's sleep.

"Come on then," she finally said, shifting her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "At least let me buy you some coffee."

It was, she reasoned, something to do. That was why there were open bars at every airport.

He had his coffee, though it was largely improved by the liberal amounts of Irish cream and whiskey he ordered. And thinking nothing of it, Mimi ordered herself a glass of wine — a fine Bordeaux to warm up her palate. But one glass turned into one bottle, and soon both of them were very warm and very, very cozy. Mimi had moved from her seat across him to right beside him and for a moment, it was as if the last year hadn't occurred. They were laughing as they walked to the car and he was pushing her hair out of her face and his fingers toyed with her hand and that's when she looked up at him, smile gone.

It was the way he held her, like she was something he had to put away inside a box and keep to himself. Like she would _break_ if he held her tighter. Mimi licked her lips and delicately pulled her hand away. Before he had a chance to complain though, she snaked her arms around his neck and pulled him into a sweet but brief embrace.

"Thank you for coming for me," she said upon release. "I hope it wasn't any trouble for Sora."

Yamato looked a little taken aback, but he had always been very good at bouncing back from surprises. He shook his head as he opened the car, resisting the urge to open the door for her. "It's no problem," he said. "We're happy you're back."

She smiled and climbed on the passenger's side, falling into light, senseless conversation and he never once moved to take her hand.


	8. Civil War

_I loved you but you were a small war._

* * *

The table was alight with the sounds of fine cutlery clinking against expensive china. The restaurant was beautiful, out in the bayside with a terrace that overlooked the ocean. She had been proud to invite her friends, prouder even, when she announced that she was now the head chef of the place. The years had gone by and some friendships kept strong, such as theirs. Despite the fact that they had now jobs and businesses and marriages (and children!), they were, first and foremost, the best of friends.

That evening, the food and wine went around generously as they caught up on what they had been up to the past few years. The terrace had been booked for the night and they all seemed to be enjoying the salty air and night lights. Mimi and Sora sat over at the table, tongues loosened by the fine wine.

"I still don't get over the two of you not being together," Sora blurted out. She had caught Mimi staring over at the blonde in question not once, but countless times during the evening. "Sometimes, it feels like it never even happened."

Mimi's breath hitched, her heartbeat skipping a few beats in turn. Yamato was leaning casually over the balcony, a glass in his hand as he laughed generously at something Taichi said. She cast her eyes back to Sora, fingering the rim of her wineglass.

"We were young. It wasn't that big of a deal," she said, taking a drink because her tongue felt so dry.

"He's doing better," Sora continued. "Loads better. He's a different person now, more like - like before."

Mimi drained her glass. "I heard he's getting married."

Her friend nodded slowly, still half dazed. "Catherine's an old family friend. I've never seen him happier."

She knew Sora didn't mean it like that, but it hurt Mimi right in the gut. Yamato looked more at ease, far less troubled than she remembered. It hurt, knowing she had nothing to do with that. As if she sensed what her words had provoked, Sora reached out a hand and gently squeezed her fingers.

"He still loves you, Mi. You're a big part of him."

She laughed, and it was short-lived and dry. "I'm happy for him, I really am," she said. "But I don't think either of us has forgotten how I left him."

It felt strange, acknowledging that out loud. And Mimi knew it sounded wrong because Sora pursed her lips and hid the action in her wineglass while Mimi poured herself one far too liberally.

When the night was over and they all left one by one, it felt as though by some divine intervention they found themselves alone with each other in the sparse balcony, in what looked like a romantic scene and was everything but. Yamato was the first to acknowledge her, leaning closer after some hesitance. His eyes were shining and she knew he was more inebriated than he let show. Then again, so was she.

"I'll walk you home," he said, making her stop in her way to finish that one last, damning glass. "Please."

They left together, walking side by side. Neither looked at the other. Mimi didn't live close by and neither did he but they remained quiet and, in silence, reached the docks. It wasn't so late that the place was empty but it was mostly couples, young and old, friends and lovers and such. Mimi wondered briefly why they couldn't be either. She sat on an empty bench and Yamato leaned against the rails, watching the waves with a calm she did not feel.

She closed her eyes, opening them only when his perfume reached her nostrils. Yamato was looking at her, no hint of a smile in his eyes or lips.

"Do you still hate me?" she asked, but it came out as more of a whimper.

Yamato reached for her hand and she wanted to cry at the contact, at the way he made her skin flare up in protest.

"No," he murmured quietly. "I don't."

In a brief bout of courage, Mimi let her fingers wander up his wrist, bunching up the material of his jacket and knowing she'd find the scars in his forearms. Yamato thought them ugly, she knew, and she had never told him how beautiful she had thought they were, even then. And now, she could find no reason not to.

"You were so beautiful, you know," she whispered, fingers touching the long, thin lines. They stilled. "God, you still are."

"Mimi—,"

"No," she interrupted. "You were — God, you were such a mess but I loved you."She dropped her hand, held it in her own to avoid searching for him again. There had been sleepless nights, waking hours at the clinic, with Jyou. Calls in the middle of the afternoon because he hadn't left his home in _three_ days and he was far too drunk, far too stoned to get into the shower himself. But even on the good days, he was always too angry, too sad, too afraid and alone and loving Yamato was like fighting a foreign war with swords and wooden shields while your enemies had tanks and bombs and came at you in the middle of the night.

"I didn't know how to then, but I loved you," he murmured, rubbing circles with his thumb on the inside of her wrist. "It's always been you."

She leaned into him, pressed her face to his neck. "I hope she makes you happy."

Yamato nuzzled her, turned to kiss her. "I wish it could've been you."

Not for the first time, Mimi wished that, too.

* * *

**Notes:** I didn't want to extend this one but basically, self-deprecating, destructive Yamato makes my heart ache. I imagine this happened after one or both of his parents passed away (likely, his dad) and he became very depressed. I also think that, if Mimi hadn't left him, he would've never gotten better. I actually wrote that and ended up taking it out: _"If you hadn't left, I would've killed myself trying to make you stay"_, as in, he relied so much on her that part of his destructive attitude came from wanting her to take care of him.


	9. AA

**Notes: **The author regrets everything.

* * *

_He locked himself somewhere I can never reach._

* * *

She once learned in a behavioural psychology class that some people built walls around themselves to see who took the time to tear them down. These were the people they could trust, because they understood the struggle of getting where they were. Ishida Yamato was not one of these people. Mimi had learned early into their relationship (but not early enough, she complained) that the reason why he built all those walls around him was to keep everyone out. _Especially_ Mimi.

There was no tragic backdrop to his story, though she imagined he liked to think himself quite the sad little case. His parents' divorce had been a relatively simple, quiet affair. The living arrangement had been chosen by Yamato himself, and his mother made a point to visit and call often. He and Takeru barely noticed the separation in terms of livelihood; Natsuko and Hiroaki tried their best to keep things civil and succeeded with relative ease.

But maybe Mimi had misunderstood him all that time, had mistaken his cries for help as cries for attention. She sat on the floor, counting the tiles in front of her. The apartment was quiet, dusty, unkempt. She could hear Yamato on the other side of the door, coughing and reeling into the toilet, shuffling around clumsily. Mimi knocked on the door, twice. He opened it only enough for her to see him through a crease, sighing and lips trembling at the sight of his red-rimmed blues and hallow, sickened face.

"Oh, Yama..." she murmured, covering her mouth with her hand. The smell of alcohol and vomit, of reckless abandon, hit her like a freight train. She wanted to ask how he'd managed not to kill himself but didn't, afraid that he'd reply it was what he'd been trying to do.

He shook his head, closing the door with a loud thud and emerging ten minutes later, wet and dripping. She had already picked out fresh clothes for him and he took them in silence, mumbling something and shrugging into them with a lack of grace she had never witnessed before. He collapsed on the bed and Mimi sat on the edge, hesitantly reaching out to move his hair out of his face. He opened his eyes and she was struck with their beauty, how startingly blue they looked in the dim light that came in through the window.

"You never told me," she said, and her voice didn't feel like it was hers at all.

"I didn't want you to know," he murmured, his voice a thread of a whisper. "I was getting better, Mi, I swear, I—,"

She gently pushed him, making space for herself to climb on the bed with him. Mimi brought him to her, pressed his face against her breast and kissed his pale forehead, stroking his still damp hair.

"You'll get better," Mimi told him, and the words threatened to crush her chest with the enormity of the promise they carried. "If I had known, Yama, I never would've—,"

"—I know," he whispered, "I know."


	10. Timekeeping

**Notes: **Before setting out to write this, I already expect it to be very, very close to my heart. On the bright side, it's not a really depressing one!

* * *

_Maybe love is always in the wrong time-zone._

* * *

12:35AM

He had been waiting up for hours and already knew it would show come morning. His deep blue eyes flitted from the time flashing on his touchscreen to the lights of the still-alive city. The cold February air had not yet left and he almost regretted not wearing his jacket over the flimsy cotton of his pajamas as the cold seeped under the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

_Four minutes to go._

Yamato coughed into his fist, turning his nose upwards to gaze into a practically starless sky. If it was almost 1am it meant that ... it be barely noon over there. The thought that it was still _yesterday_ somewhere in the world was something he couldn't quite wrap his mind around. That you could lose or gain thirteen hours of time in a transoceanic flight was truly one of life's strangest bits.

_One minute to go_.

He thought about how happy she'd be he called, how she'd laugh, almost breathless, and tell him she had been waiting all day to hear him. And when she answered, he had to bite down hard on his bottom lip to stop himself from grinning like an idiot.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

"Yamato, is that you? Oh, my God! Hi! How are - _can you shut up for a moment please?_ No, Michael, it's not for you. What do you mean by that? Ugh, no! Stop! Goddamnit - sheesh, wait, Yama, I need to move out — _get out of my way, Michael_.

"You sound kind of busy—,"

"No! Sorry, these dorks don't know how to _behave_," she yelled the last word and Yamato had to move his phone away from his ear to avoid permanent damage to his hearing. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

And the words simply failed him.

"I—I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday," he murmured, burying his fingers in the nape of his neck.

"Aww, that's so sweet Yama, thanks! It's not until tomorrow though," she giggled. "You're a bit early."

"It's already the 28th in Japan, Mimi."

"Oh yeah, I forget about that sometimes. Gosh! It's my birthday! Can you believe it? _Twenty-one._ In just one year, I'll get to be _your_ age."

"In one year, I'll be twenty-three," he reminded her with a gentle chuckle that made her pause for a moment, then giggle again.

"Oh, that's right. I guess we're just not meant to be."

He knew she didn't mean anything by it but her words cut his breath short and he had to cover it up with another cough.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You're not outside without a jacket, are you?"

"Mimi—," he protested, shocked and embarrassed that she knew him so well that she could make him flustered from across the Atlantic

"Yamato, it's February. Go put something on, for fuck's sake."

It was a combination of her not-so-gentle chiding and her far-too-strong language that floored him. Yamato frowned, running his fingers over his forearm as he held his phone to his ear.

"Are you celebrating right now?"

"Just having lunch," Mimi said absently, and he imagined her wrapping a lock of hair around her finger, chewing on her bottom lip. "I'm having a party tonight. Balloons, fireworks — all that jazz," she paused. "I wish you could come."

"Stop that," he called her out suddenly, running his free hand through his hair. "You'll bust your lip and then you'll look horrible tonight."

"What—oh _God_, you're so weird, Yama, I _swear_."

"Weren't you?"

"That's not the point!"

"That's _exactly_ the point, Mi."

"Whatever, weirdo. You're right, anyway. I can't wear a bust lip tonight, it'll show in all my pictures and I don't think I could endure one single 'I told you so'."

He chuckled and it was nice to hear her almost giggling on the other side of the phone.

"Have fun tonight," he murmured quietly, the last dregs of his laughter dying on a lingering smile.

"You haven't even seen my dress," she continued, as if she didn't quite hear him. "You'll be wishing you were here!"

"Pink?" he asked, figuring he could entertain her for a while. Twenty minutes more, twenty minutes less ... it didn't matter at this point. He might as well just wait for the sunrise.

"Obviously."

Yamato shrugged, his voice nonchalant when he spoke. "Meh, I've seen you in pink before."

He swore her shocked gasp was worth it all.

"Not this shade of pink!" she huffed,"—you're insufferable, did you know that?"

"Mimi—,"

"So _mean_ and on my _birthday,_ too—,"

"Mimi." He squared his shoulders, re-adjusting his phone against the other ear and let out a slow breath. "We miss you too," he said. "You don't have to coax it out of me, you already know we do," he paused, pulling at a loose thread in his shirt. "Me, most of all."

She had gone strangely quiet on the other end and he almost thought they had lost connection when he heard the first quiet sniffle.

"I hate it here," she moaned, and he grew tense at the stark quality of her voice.

"No, you don't," he said gently, turning his back against the cold current of air, wishing not for the first time that he _had_ gotten that jacket.

"I _do._"

"You don't. And you shouldn't say that, because I'm sure Michael's overhearing this conversation and you know how sensitive he gets."

Mimi chuckled, choked on a few sobs. "I miss you. _Loads_, Yama."

"Yeah," he said absently. "You should get back to your friends. It's getting late—,"

"Okay," Mimi said. "Thanks for calling. And, you know — everything else," she laughed, and it was the sort of laughter that often caught him off-guard and made his breath hitch. "Kiss you goodnight?"

He rolled his eyes, did a harsh _tch_ sound from the back of his throat. "Such a child."

"Go to bed, old man," she giggled. "I'll send pictures!"

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed, ending the conversation when her laughter cleared and the breathless quality of her voice was too much to bear. He stretched his arms over his head, stiffled a yawn and awkwardly shuffled back into the warmth of his apartment, falling on an empty bed. The clock on his bedside table flashed 1:47AM in large green numbers and he buried his face in his pillow, because it was unfair that he was sleep-deprived and cold on a Sunday while she basked in the glow of a still sunny Saturday afternoon, and it was unfair that their clocks would never really coincide.


	11. Overture

_I still write songs about me leaving you._

* * *

"It's - it's fucken' _brilliant_."

Yamato peeked out one startlingly blue eye to look at the man who had spoken. He had just turned off the speakers and was looking at him as though he had brought back the son he lost years ago. Not that he had any kids to begin with. Akamatsu Hoshi had been his seal into stardom and Yamato was, to him, the biggest, fattest cow in the meadow. And boy, did he milk him. Yamato and his band had been hashing out new albums left and right, each better and higher grossing than the last. And finally, after taking a well-deserved break from touring, The Wolves had taken the backseat and Yamato had produced a small studio album, all by himself. It was supposed to be a small project - it _was_ a small project, he kept insisting, but his producer and his band and everyone who was anyone in the music industry agreed that it was _so much more_.

"Is it finished?" he asked, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

The blond nodded once. "I have nothing more to add."

The older man looked on the verge of tears. "We'll release it now!"

Yamato looked up suddenly, brow furrowed.

"This month?"

"This _week_," the man expressed with glee. "By Friday!"

His blue eyes were fixed on the calendar standing erect on the expensive crystal desk, lingering for too long on the number eighteen.

"Next week," he murmured softly.

"I thought you had nothing more to add?" Hoshi almost seemed disappointed.

"I lied," Yamato replied, sinking down on his chair. "There's _always_ more to add."

"Well," Hoshi sighed. "If you must."

"It'll be ready by next Thursday."

"The eighteenth?"

Yamato's eyes finally left the calendar, fixing his manager with a distant, vacant stare. "Yes," he said quietly. "The eighteenth."

.

.

It was an instant hit.

His label released the first single at midnight, just as the clock in Japan struck twelve. In the first two hours, the song had already been purchased by hundreds of thousands and Akamatsu Hoshi was probably crying in ecstasy as the numbers kept piling up. His phone rang numerous times, but Yamato did not pick it up. He sat on a low couch, legs spread in front of him, half a bottle of Yamazaki gone. It hadn't been his intention to stay in, half-drunk and half-dead, but once he had put his jacket on, he had found that he could not face his own reflection. He had taken two showers since then and sat in silence; his hair was still damp, his bare feet crossed at the ankle.

A part of him had known it'd be her, when the doorbell rang. He opened the door casually, unhurriedly, as if he had been expecting her (and he almost had been). Mimi stood on the other side, shuffling awkwardly on high-heeled, over-the-knee boots. Her hair, once neatly curled, framed her face in soft, almost limp curls that barely hid her bright pink nose and cheeks. Even in her state of partial inebriation, she looked stunning.

"Mi," he said quietly.

_"Me,"_ she giggled, pointing at herself and then letting her arms hang heavily on her sides. She looked at him from behind kohl-lined eyes. "Won't you ask me in?"

He stepped to the side, letting her inside his apartment and hesitating to close the door behind her as she quietly slipped out of her high boots, throwing them carelessly near the entrance. She sank on the low couch, arms spread wide. Under her coat she had been wearing a flowy navy blue dress, dark tights underneath. With her boots on, the outfit had to have been exquisite and he wondered why she would choose to waste her good looks in an empty apartment.

"The party," he mentioned after a moment, and Mimi cocked her head to one side, peering curiously at him. "You left?"

"Oh, the party is still going," she said. "It was a great party, everyone was saying so."

"They always are," he agreed quietly, taking a seat across from her, his drink in hand. "Won't they miss you?"

Mimi reached out for him, fingers barely brushing his as she took the drink from his hand, downing it in two long gulps.

"They'll hardly notice," she breathed out, glass and ice clinking as she set it down on the low table.

"They'll notice," he said simply. "You're hard to miss."

"Am ... I_?_" she teased, voice trailing off on a shaky breath. "You seem to be alright."

Yamato watched her quietly, heart racing as he appraised her lithe form, nervous as he saw her big, shining eyes. The question begged to be asked but he thought, if he could only stall for a moment, maybe - maybe she wouldn't leave again, not so soon. He licked his lips, let a sigh escape him.

"I'm thirsty," she announced suddenly, running long fingers through fine brown curls. "I need water."

No sooner had her words left her tongue, he was on his feet, pouring two glasses of ice cold water and giving her one. Mimi drank generously, and she truly looked parched. Yamato drank too, if only to fill the silence, to look at something that wasn't her face. Even that felt like too much. When he lowered his glass, she was looking at his feet, her fingers clasping the empty glass nervously.

"Why?" she asked, so quietly it almost broke his heart.

"Because," he answered.

"_Because_, Yamato," she breathed, "—is not a reason."

"It is an answer," he said, looking up.

"Not the one I'm looking for."

"No," he said. "I bet it's not."

His head was beginning to hurt, and he wasn't sure if it was the whiskey or her scent which intoxicated him.

"I wasn't going to come," she said, still turning the glass between her delicate, long fingers. "I had the party — Wallace and all my friends, all _our_ friends — but I heard it."

In the silence that followed, Yamato could not guess what she was thinking. After all this time, he still did not understand her. Her friends — _their_ friends did, and they loved her, too. Others had come, like Wallace, and he wondered if he too, loved the things Yamato had at one point fallen for.

"It was beautiful," she spoke in that same voice and this time, he had the sense to dodge when she finally hurled at him the glass she had been nursing. "How _could _you." He heard it shatter against the wall, fall to pieces in the cold tile floor. Yamato ran a hand through his hair, down his face; his mouth felt dry. He watched her walk up to his piano, open the lid and sit down as she had so many times before. He had made love to her once, on that piano. He wondered if she remembered.

Mimi touched the first notes, tentatively, as if she had always known them. She looked composed, not at all as if she had just been shaken by a violent streak. She never did.

_"My past is perilous but each scar I bear sings,"_ she sang, so very softly.

Despite himself, he smiled. "Your voice is still beautiful."

"You got it all wrong, in that song," Mimi replied darkly. "I didn't make you happy, or certain, or _better_. If I had...,"

"You did," he said quietly, touching his palm to the cold piano. "I was too young, and too stupid to know it then, but you did."

"I didn't leave you," Mimi whispered.

"I know, Mi."

"You didn't give me a _choice_," she continued, and the slight desperation in her voice made him want to break something, the way his passive detachment made her go half insane.

"I know that, too."

"And yet..."

"...and yet."

"He's lovely to me," Mimi said, and she no longer looked like a small, fragile thing. "Wallace."

Yamato took his time, glancing at the piano and then slowly, almost lazily into her honey-gold eyes. "I know."

"I waited for you."

He could feel it welling up inside him, and he made a tremendous effort not to let it show. "I know you did."

"Sometimes, I don't think you ever took me seriously," she sighed. "Did you ever?"

"Not particularly," Yamato answered, a wry half-smile touching his lips. "As I said, I was stupid then."

Mimi laughed, and the sound of her laughter brought him back, back from that dark place.

"You were," she said. "You were so stupid."

"I'm not stupid anymore, Mi." Yamato let himself smile this time, too.

She took her time in answering, walking towards him and pushing herself into his embrace, burying her face in his chest.

_"I want you, the way you are, you, the way you are..." _he sang, softly, voice trailing off on a whisper. There had never been a chance, he thought, of being something else.

"You are," she told him. "You are _so stupid_ ... and too late, Yamato."

Her warmth lingered, hours after she had gone. The scent of her, like spring in full blossom, and the taste of maraschino cherries and scotch that had hinted at him behind her tongue. How she had looked at him from the door; how she had left, the sound of his name like a prayer or a curse, lingering, too.

* * *

**Notes:** I'm not too crazy about this chapter, but I had to stop working on it or I'd butcher it even more. I have a feeling there's something weird about it, but I'm not sure what it is so if you find it, let me know. The song is _Monuments and Melodies_, by Incubus.


	12. Gun-shy

**gun-shy:** hesitant, wary, or distrustful, especially because of previous unpleasant experience.

* * *

_We were always too rough, even when we were trying to be gentle._

* * *

It was funny, if you thought about it.

The accident was a minor thing, that's what her doctors said. Looked nastier than it was (though she was disinclined to believe that, because it had hurt like a _bitch_), and she'd be up and about in no time. The details were fuzzy even now, as she woke up from the heavy dosage of medication they had given her (she vaguely remembered demanding horse tranquilizers, a request that had alarmed the physicians and had her admitted for a couple extra hours just to make sure she wasn't a frequent substance abuser, given the levels of alcohol found in her blood). She groaned, lips feeling numb, tongue scratching like sand against her teeth.

The car had come out of nowhere, really. Mimi had only left the restaurant in a huff and all she remembered was dim lights, a frantic touch of_ hands, hands, hands_ and her rosé tickling the back of her throat. There had been the _click clack_ of needle-point shoes, a rustle of leather and silk and bright lights, harsh smells, the screeching of tires as they came to a violent halt.

She had been lucky, they told her, that the car was one of those cute electric bugs she insisted Koushiro should buy. When they told her, she swore she'd never, _ever_ mention them to him again. In fact, she'd _disown_ him if he ever expressed so much as a passing interest in the little menaces. She'd been sent flying into a backing car, and down to the cold pavement. His face and his fist colliding against the driver's face with a sickening crack was the last thing she remembered.

Her eyes didn't open slowly and gracefully like those people on the movies and the medical shows she hated so much, and there was a mildly embarrassing and strangely vindictive pleasure in waking up groggy, disoriented, hurt and bruised and aching all over, and finding him right next to her, head bowed low and fingers laced together with a vice. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she reached out to him, touched his hair and his head shot up, immediately making her regret the motion.

_"Mimi,"_ he gasped, as though he had not expected to say her name out loud so soon.

_"Ow,"_ she groaned, sitting back and wondering if this was what a broken rib felt like. "Are you trying to _kill_ me?"

Yamato paled and for a moment, she really thought he'd blush. But then he scowled, face like glass once more as he ran his nervous fingers over thin, golden blond hair.

"Don't joke about that," he chided her, though not ungently.

"I'm _not_," Mimi sighed, drawing herself higher on her bed and reaching out for the pitcher of water with a lazy finger. Yamato poured her a glass, drawing himself up to her and helping her drink, an action both endearing and embarrassing to her, who hadn't been in a position of needing anything from him in so long. She swallowed, feeling blissfully aware and sharp, sharp, sharp, like the needles she had seen in Sora's home studio, who had prickled her fingers even after Sora had warned her not to touch them. She'd never been really good at listening, for some reason.

"Jyou had you stay the night for observation, but he said you could go whenever you woke up. Everyone came down yesterday, but you were out pretty cold."

It took a while before she realised Yamato was talking again, moving around the room. Her eyes lingered on the spray of fresh white orchids and she sighed, closing her eyes for a moment.

"... and I already told them I'm staying with you, so don't worry about it."

Her eyes snapped open.

"You can't stay," she said, hesitating.

"I can't very well leave," he countered, brow furrowed. "Not with you like this."

In her condition, she tried very hard not to be offended. She failed too, as he could see in the way she scrunched her face up and that alone caused him to blush.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I should've followed you outside."

_Should've, should've, should've._

Mimi, having already decided she hated this hospital room, barely shrugged as she climbed off the bed, holding on to his arm when he dashed to her side.

"I wasn't going to listen to you," she stated matter-of-factly. "Or anyone else, for that matter. It was an accident, Yama. It happens."

"You weren't in so many accidents before, you know."

The glare she shot him melted when she caught that glimpse of sea blue and she sighed, floating to him as gently and gracefully as her tasteless hospital gown would allow her. Her hands touched his face and for once, she didn't think about what she looked like, just woken up and bruised.

"It's not your fault," she murmured, and for the first time she acknowledged the conversation she had vowed to put behind her. "You can't stay just because I don't know how to take care of myself."

"That's not the only reason," he breathed, and Mimi kissed his lips softly.

"We've talked about the other reasons."

Extensively, heatedly, with anger, and hurt and longing and all of the above. So much that they often ended up in bed, a mess of limbs and promises they wouldn't keep, of things they wouldn't do, places they'd never see. So much that she had left in a drunken haze, wine on her tongue and heart between her fingers to avoid being pulled into the same spiral once again. So much that she'd had to be hit by life (in car form), to realise it was always going to be this way. Mimi blinked tiredly, reaching for the fresh clothes on her bag and slipping on loose harem pants and an off-the-shoulder shirt that could have, for all intents and purposes, been his once.

"Take me home, please?" she said, knowing he'd been about to protest. "We can not talk about it tonight. And tomorrow, and..." and she didn't say it, but he took her hand in his, kissing the back of it.

"Of course."

He took her hand and it took everything not to scream, not to tell him that she burned, wherever he touched. In a couple of mornings he'd be gone, far and away and she'd miss this touch, and the way his eyes always seemed to soften when she looked at him, and the way her heart ached when he didn't.

* * *

**Notes: **I am really not sure what I tried to do here, but the scene practically wrote itself and after a month of not being able to write anything, I'll take what I get.

Thanks for reading.


	13. The Salt Wound Routine

**Note: **There is a heavy usage of dialogue and ellipsis in this chapter. It is meant to indicate trailing off, doubt, a sort of dreamy, slow melancholy. I hope I could get this across right without interrupting much into the flow of the story. I apologise for the quality but this series have turned surprisingly difficult to write without getting repetitive. I really have no idea what I'm doing by now. A lot of this chapter has to be implied and read between the lines, so if you have any thoughts about it, please share below.

After much consideration and the fact that Fanfiction won't let me use really long names, the chapter was titled after a song by Thirteen Senses. It is, however, unrelated to the lyrics.

* * *

_I don't know how to not be lonely._

* * *

_It's a nice colour,_ he thought, _cream_.

The place was well-lit, with one big window behind a desk and fantastic illumination, the sort of office space Sora would probably kill for if she could get her hands on it. He made a mental note to tell her about the building and then, upon second thought, dismissed it. No, he certainly wouldn't like to run into Sora _here_.

"How many days has it been?"

The question brought him back and he blinked lazily, staring back at the woman who sat on the personal couch. The chair had a high, arched back, and was the sort of pretentious furniture his grandmother liked, probably. She was wearing her hair down, bangs falling over her cheeks as she leaned into her notes, jiggling one foot to an imaginary tune he could've followed, if she hadn't been completely tone-deaf.

"How many days?" he scoffed, "I don't keep track."

The woman tapped her pen against her paper, nodding once.

"Okay then."

"Don't do that," he pursed his lips, displeased. "_Please._"

"Don't do what?"

"Say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like it's a goddamn _vice_."

She stared at him, as though surprised. "Well, that's how you've been referring to it, I'm just following your lead. People are allowed one vice, it's only human."

"But it isn't," he insisted, his calm tone persisting despite feeling anything but. "A vice implies I can _quit_, like a bad habit. Like smoking, or drinking."

"You've indulged in them before," she said. "Smoking, drinking ... and quitting."

He ran nervous fingers through his fine blond hair, sighing before taking a seat and closing his eyes to avoid the image of caramel hair, honey eyes, the sweet smell of summertime. It didn't work.

"We're not talking about that," he murmured.

"What _are_ we talking about, then?"

"My work ... you know my boss sent me here."

"Kojima-san only wants the best for you, you know that."

"I'm fine." He did not insist on the lie.

"She says you're distracted, irritable, early to work and late to leave," she said, reading from what he assumed was a detailed list sent by his boss, a woman so concerned with his well-being she had mandated these silly, weekly sessions.

_'Since you'll talk to no-one at the office'_, she had told him.

Sometimes, he thought he hated the woman.

"So I'm a workaholic, big surprise. So was my dad," he paused again, and it was surprising how clearly he could see her then, stark blue eyes against dirty blond hair. "And my mother."

"Do you want to talk about that?"

He snorted, amused. "No."

"You've already mentioned four things you don't want to talk about," she said, lips pursed. "Yamato-san if you don't talk to me, then it doesn't make much sense for you to keep coming to therapy."

He shrugged, shoulders rising and falling in a practiced movement. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"You're being especially difficult today," she said, choosing to ignore him. "Did something happen with...?

"I'm obssessing over her," he blurted out, and it was this, finally, that piked her interest.

"Okay," she said softly, putting her notebook down. "Why don't you tell me about her?"

"I don't like talking about her."

The admission was met quietly and he stood up again, walking around the room. He had always been irritated by the way Taichi never seemed to be able to stand still but, he now realised, it was more difficult than he remembered. He stopped before a painting of the ocean, fighting the urge to reach out and touch the painting, wondering why he was channeling Taichi so much today. It was the sort of thing _he_ did, after all, move from one place to another, reach out to touch this, and that, and everything around him.

It wasn't what Yamato did, though.

"That's probably why you should," she said, not unkindly. "Do you miss her?"

Yamato paused, looking past the painting.

"I left her." He imagined the understanding smile on her face, the quiet nod of her head. "Or I let her go, which ends up being the same thing."

"That doesn't mean you can't miss her," her voice came. "Why did you leave her?"

"I was lonely," he shrugged, "so I did lonely things."

He could hear the gentle scribble of her pen against paper, wondering why a woman like her would choose a regular pad and pen instead of a laptop, a tablet, any of the great commodities technology had to offer. It was a silly question, but he only knew how to answer those.

"You've never mentioned that before," she said. "Was it a particularly difficult separation?"

"Not particularly," Yamato said, slowly circling the couch before settling on it. _Feline._ "It was natural, really. I moved away, she moved away. We were a long way from where we..." and he stopped, suddenly bashful. "Mind if I smoke?"

"If it'll make you feel better..."

"It won't," came his flat answer, but his mind reached into his pocket for a packet of Marlboro Red, the _good_ kind, that he found only in really sketchy corners of Shinjuku and were dealt as viciously as hard drugs. He lit the cigarette, raking in a long drag and savouring the sweet tobacco.

"Yamato-san..."

"It happened somewhere else. We were away from home, both of us, and found each other quite by accident. I don't think it took us more than a week to get together, and more than two weeks to realise that was all we wanted." He breathed out. "Do you know what that's like? You meet someone so far away from home ... they could be anyone else, and I couldn't help falling in love."

"You loved her?"

"Still do," Yamato breathed, shaking his head and decidedly avoiding his therapist's inquisitive gaze. "How could I not?"

"Young love tends to be intense. Was it your first time?" He gave her a look that probably betrayed his feelings, because she smiled softly, tilting her head to one side. "I meant..."

"I know what you meant," he said in a breath. "It was ... I wasn't the first person she loved."

"Did you resent her for having a past?"

"No," he answered truthfully. "I loved her for it. She was all these things and I had never met anyone like her before. I kept thinking 'I could've known this girl before', but I didn't, not until I did and then ... I think it was right."

"But you still left her." The question lingered in the air, but Yamato dismissed it with a steady stream of smoke. "Is that when you picked up smoking?"

Another careless shrug, this time, accompanied by a sad smile.

"I was still lonely, so I did even lonelier things."

"Should we talk about those lonely things?" she asked, but Yamato shook his head.

"Nothing like that, sensei," he said. "I was just out of it a lot. Sparce. Figuring everything out."

"Did she ever tell you she missed you?"

The question was unexpected, and that was what surprised him the most. He wasn't used to being surprised by very many people, especially not by his very own therapist.

"Sometimes," he began slowly, unsurely. "Though it was more in the _I-miss-having-sex-with-you_ way more often than not." She was polite enough not to make a face, a sound, a lilt of a smile. So different to her, who would've squealed in delight, laugh and say _'well, I do',_ if she had been there.

"And..."

"And one day she said I hurt her, when I left like that. I had no excuse really, and she didn't ask for any. Still, I don't think my answers were very good." There was silence, a scribble of notes and then he sighed, putting out the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray he knew she reserved for him. "She called me a coward."

"She may have needed some sort of closure, and your reasons may have not been enough. It is difficult, leaving the things we love. It is more difficult than when the things we love leave us." Matsuda-sensei closed her notebook, placed her pen on the coffee table between them. "And this—,"

"Five hundred and twenty six."

A pause.

"Excuse me?"

"It's been five hundred and twenty six days since I last saw her."

It took a while for her to find her voice but when she did it sounded strange, distant. "I thought you didn't keep track."

"I lied. You knew," and he buried his face in his hands, as though the very act of breathing reminded him he was not whole. "I told you; I'm obssessed with her. With it. With _them_."

"Yamato-san," his therapist finally said, sitting up straight and frowning at him behind stern brown eyes. "What exactly is going on?"

But he was already on his feet, already at the door, already...

"Mimi's coming back," he deadpanned. "She's coming back and I don't know what will happen when she does."

She called out his name once more before he closed the door, muttering he'd be back next week, thinking he never would.

_Forgive me, I was lonely so I chose you._

But it had never been _his_ choice.


	14. The Rest of the Sun

_She is too intense, I can barely look at her without getting burnt._

* * *

She comes dressed in sunlight, warm kisses, cool spring. The golden gown she wears to the wedding is nothing but exquisite, clinging without mercy to every soft curve and sharp bone in her body. There are Swarovski crystals, pounds of them, from what he hears Sora say, all hand-sewn to the delicate fabric of her gown. She is wearing transparencies, glitter, pure gold, and she moves like a dream, with _sway_, like the succubus he knows her to be.

When she comes closer, he can see the 1000-watt smile from a distance and he takes his leave, touching Sora's arm and mumbling about getting them drinks. He finds, to no-one's surprise, that Taichi is also at the bar. His former-classmate, bestfriend, would-be-best-man, is not exactly hunched, but not exactly proud as he is wont to be. Yamato takes a seat next to him, orders a glass of cognac.

"What are you drinking?"

"Light," he says, shrugging. "Beams of liquid sun."

Yamato frowns as he is brought his drink, shaking his head.

"You sound like her."

Taichi stops, takes a look at him and at his drink and chuckles, dryly.

"We're a sorry pair," he states, quite unnecessarily. "After all this time..."

"Let it go, Taichi," Yamato says, quietly, but Taichi continues as if he hadn't heard, and perhaps he hadn't.

"She looks fantastic," he says. "That colour ... I can't even look at her."

Her tinkling laughter reaches them and they both turn as she places a delicate hand on both their backs. She squeals in delight, reaches up to kiss Yamato in the corner of his mouth, laughs into Taichi's neck. She's got them wrapped around her little finger, even after all this time. Years of an on-and-off relationship, of tirelessly fighting to keep his head afloat. Of fighting to keep his best friend by his side, and _still_...

"There you are!" her laughter tinkles. "I've been asking about you."

She hasn't. He knows, because he's been staring at her since she got there, has been aware of her since she entered the room.

"I had no idea," Yamato lies, just as Taichi lets out a well-practised chuckle and says, "What an honour."

Her smile doesn't falter but he swears something flickers in her eyes and he is met, once again, with the pathetic hope that she realises just how much power she has stolen from them. _Stolen_, because Yamato never intended her to turn him into _this_.

"It was a beautiful wedding," she says, as though the silence between them wasn't awkward, and charged. As if her eyes didn't burn them wherever they landed. "Noriko-san looks so sweet. She and Daisuke have been very lucky to find each other."

"Ah, luck," Taichi says with a well-timed sigh, "that elusive _bitch_."

Mimi pretends not to hear him as she draws closer, asks for a glass of whiskey; no soda, two ice, a wedge of lemon. Yamato's senses are on alert and he knows Taichi is on edge too; he can feel it, like the way an animal can feel the quiet gathering of a storm. Mimi takes a long drink, then slowly licks her lips.

"I wish you would stop that."

He looks up but she's talking to Taichi, who is still staring at her with eyes that look ready to smolder.

"Excuse me_,_" he says. "I think they're calling out for me."

_"Taichi..." _she says, but he is already gone.

Yamato drinks from his glass, then sighs. "He wasn't expecting to see you, tonight."

"And you?"

Yamato only shrugs, looking away. Her hand is small on his back, warm where she has touched him with hesitant, graceful fingers.

"What are you doing here, Mimi?"

"I missed you," she says, and he can hear her voice quivering, can imagine her lower lip trembling but this is all background noise, secondary to the burning of her palms as they rub up and down his arm, try to goad him into turning around for her... "I really wanted to—,"

"Mimi, I—," but just as suddenly, her hand stops and the sudden loss of contact feels cold and hard. He turns around finally, and immediately wishes he hadn't. The young doctor is handsome, towering but with a gentle face. His hair is cut short, modern, efficient — it has the tellings of a Tachikawa decision all over it, and Yamato's mouth fills with sand at the thought.

"Oh," he says, then stops. "I'm very sorry, I didn't know you were busy—I'll come back later."

"No," she says quickly, flying to his side. "Jyou, this is a friend, Ishida Yamato. Yama-kun, this is, Kido," a second's hesitation and then, "—my Jyou."

He can see it then, the rock on her finger. His eyes widen ever so slightly and she realises, because she's suddenly blushing, coy but not at all ashamed, and he looks up at the polite stranger and wonders if the man can hear his heart breaking against his ribcage.

"Pleased to meet you, Kido-san," he manages in a high, clear voice that surprises even him. "—I didn't know congratulations were in order."

"Oh!" the man says and now, he even stammers a little. "Well, it's rather recent and we, well, _Mimi_ didn't want to draw any attention away from the newlyweds."

Mimi is staring at him, golden-brown eyes a mixture of apprehension and what he now knows is fear, but he only shakes his head, his smile like barbed wire.

"That's very thoughtful of you both," he says, and the couple seems to glow for a moment, and it only makes him want to gag.

"Thank you for your well-wishes, Ishida-san," the young man says politely. "But Mimi, I need to leave for a moment, I was hoping you could excuse me with your friends."

"Oh no. Yes, of course Jyou. Don't worry about it."

He smiles, genuinely grateful.

"It's been a pleasure, Ishida-san," he says and Yamato shakes his hand even, wishing he could say the same. "I'll see you back at home?"

Mimi looks at him with those same eyes, the same sort of look that Taichi had for her once, and he grows very still as he turns around, always serene. He doesn't ask if she was going to tell him but he draws nearer, touches her pale arms and the goosebumps on her skin make him shiver. His cold hands brush over cold crystals, soft mesh, warm skin and he bends down to kiss her in the corner of her lips. His lips scorch and she parts her mouth but he draws away before she can draw him in, suck out what little life still remains in him.

He thinks of her as he walks away, and what it would feel like to be able to hold her like Kido Jyou, still her with a few well-chosen words. He thinks of the way she looked at him when he last kissed her, the way she looked at him when he last made love to her, the way she looked when she told him she was in love with Taichi, and with him, and that she belonged deeply to herself. And he thinks of how her kisses hurt, how her fingers burn, how she steals the air out of his lungs and the life out of his heart and how the good doctor has finished what she started, stealing her away from him for good. He drinks her whiskey, his cognac, another round of champagne.

She is _gone, gone, gone,_ and how it hurts to watch her go.


	15. Love is a Warm Gun

**Notes:** Half-way mark. Thank you to everyone who's been supporting me from the very start, especially to **soojinah** and **starrymilk**, for making me think maybe I'm not so crazy for writing this project. This one is a very nostalgic piece inspired, somewhat, by several pieces of literature that have at some point or another touched my life. I keep getting all these ideas and they sort of combine into each other; it's a strange thing to write.

In other news, I now think _'Happiness is a Warm Gun'_ is probably about shooting up heroine.

* * *

I learned the word _divorce_ before I ever knew what love was.

* * *

As a child, they tell you love is your father on the sidelines at your junior league baseball game. They say it's your mother's home-cooked dinner, the way your father tucks you in at night and how she kisses your forehead as you fall asleep. They tell you love is a younger brother, his toothless smile, the way he always shares his cookies with you. But you've heard the fighting, seen the sideway glares. You have _been _in the room and felt the temperature drop ten degrees with one word from your mother, one grunt from your father.

Then your parents split up and the kind woman you now see once a week always tells you, '_she left your father, not you'_, and that it doesn't mean she no longer loves you. They say _'understand, Yamato, that this has nothing to do with you',_ and when you say that you don't want to see her again, no-body has the heart to tell you you're wrong.

You think love is coming home to an empty apartment that, on weekends, smells vaguely like old cigarettes. The bed is never made in your father's room and there are no flowers, but there's always money in the kitchen, a credit card "for emergencies only", and his secretary's private number in case you ever need actual adult supervision. You are taught that love is meeting your basic needs for water, food, shelter, an education, superfluous adolescent luxuries. You think of impersonal birthday presents your mother sends, because she no longer knows you but they're always signed: _'love, mum'_.

When you're fourteen love is a Christmas cake, your first big concert, the first girl you've ever liked as more than a friend. It is sweaty palms and knotted stomachs and a sense of comraderie, complicity, of holding on tight enough that your knuckles turn white. Confessions, sideway glances, a memory of something you had missed and only just found again.

Love is, you think, a lot of awkward firsts.

Of course, what is true when you are fourteen is rarely true when you're twenty-five. Children remember everything the wrong way. More come after her, though they too, are rare and counted. You think of waves of deep maroon, warm blonde, soft blue, pale violet, dark, dark black but never red, never again red, and they teach you other things, too. That love is warm lips and hot breath and having somewhere to stay. That closed doors and open windows are not necessarily good omens. That soulmates can be friends, too. That whatever or however you desire, does not correlate directly with what you need. It is growing up, and growing out, and falling in and out of pits, somehow finding the courage to go on, climb a new height.

But they never tell you that love, like happiness, is like a warm gun.

You shoot and for a few seconds you're numb and the gun is warm in your hand, tingling fingers still poised over the trigger. It comes suddenly, and unexpected, and unwanted, and that's just the way it usually is. It knocks on your door and beats you to pulp and you're wondering what on _heaven's_ sake happened. And like a shotgun, she is unapologetic, unbridled, untamed, and you are far too deep, far too gone.

She says she believes in laughing stars and that the land of tears is a mysterious place where she can never make a home. She is bright, and warm, and colourful but also she is hard, and too strong, and too afraid of hurting. You see this woman (_no; girl_), and she looks nothing like the love you remember, is nothing like the love you longed for. But she is kind, and understanding, and demanding in a way no-one has ever been to you. Soft caramel hair, golden eyes, a _perfect_ fucking smile, and before you know it she's crept behind your eyelids, between your fingers, inside the crook of your neck. She is there when you open your eyes, there when you close them, there when you don't want her to be.

And she is more than you've ever asked for, more than you've ever wanted, more than you can handle. She wants _you_, but also she wants the world, and she wants _love, love, love,_ and you don't know how to give it all to her. She speaks of a future you cannot see, but she is confident she cannot imagine it without you in it. And you take a step back because _I never signed up for this_. You catch her cooing over someone's wedding band and an alarm goes off in your head because you know what they mean, you know they're shackles, balls and chains, papers that say you will see your child in select holidays only.

You're thinking all this and she looks at you like maybe you're it, like maybe all this time she's been looking for you, like maybe you're magic.

... and it scares you, it absolutely _terrifies_ you that she is something so strange, so beautiful, something you don't know how to love.

_Bang, bang_.

And maybe, you never want to learn.


	16. Absolution

_You carry too much baggage._

* * *

As she stared at him, his own serene blues stared right back at her. He looked ridiculous, she thought, with that amused little smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, the glint in his eyes that told her he meant every word out of his mouth.

"You really want me to _say_ it," she said, once again. "_Really._"

"Yes, and I'm getting tired of this little vis-a-vis," he said, "_Really_."

Mimi took a big breath, then sighed. "I just don't feel attracted to you, Ishida."

He snorted, an undignified action that caught her off-guard, as he often did. "I think we both know that's not true."

"Okay, so I like your _hair_," she muttered, exasperated. "And you've got cheekbones to _die_ _for_, and your eyes are unbelievably blue but really, Yamato, you're not that big a deal."

"This is ridiculous," he said. "You're _really_ not going to admit it."

"What's this all about?" Mimi finally said, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. It was unusual for her to be so closed-off and reluctant, but then, it had been forty minutes since he appeared at her doorstep, completely serious as he barged into her apartment and threw himself on her couch and demanded answers that Mimi had been prepared to never give.

"Just answer the question, Mimi."

"No," she warned him, "You come into my house and you start asking all these questions—are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"So I _do_ affect you," he said, and the surprise and triumph in his face made her do a double-take.

"You're being impossible," she finally said, giving up while wondering what sort of karmic debt she may have been paying. Something terrible, certainly.

"I can't believe you'd choose _Taichi_, and not me," he finally let out, eyes narrowing. "I wouldn't be surprised to find Daisuke made the list, too."

"List?" Mimi wondered aloud. "What list?" And then it dawned on her, what he was doing, why he was acting like such a petulant child, why he had barged inside without so much as a heads up... "Oh, my God, I can't believe she _told_ you!"

"Don't take it out on her," Yamato was quick to reply once he realised he had spoken out loud. "She was just doing her duty as a best friend."

"She's _my_ best friend!"

"She's my best friend too."

And now Mimi was indiginant for a whole different reason. Her cheeks acquired a deep crimson colour and she was positively seething when she charged on him, throwing a lumpy cushion at his face. She missed, because she had terrible aim and he had freakishly feline reflexes, but that didn't stop her from throwing another, and a third one.

"What do you mean '_she's your best friend'_? I thought _I_ was your best friend!"

"You _know_ what I mean. And Taichi isn't?"

"Taichi _isn't_—you can't be best friends with people you—oh, _shut up!_"

"It's not a contest," Yamato said calmly, picking up the final pillow without a care. "Will you stop?"

"It's not a—," Mimi stood up, glaring at him. "Get _out_ of my house."

"Come on," he groaned. "You can't be serious."

"You want to know what I think about you, Yamato? I think you're an _arse._ You think you're too big, too cool, too full of yourself. You don't let people in and you get _weird_ about your family, but then you absolutely refuse to talk about it. I get it, you think it's been too long, but you know what? For a person who's so focused on what happens around him, it's surprising how much you can miss—you have _no_ idea how you make people feel," she swallowed, hard. "I can't see myself being with someone who only wants me peripherally in his life, so _that's_ why."

She had fallen silent at that point, overly excited by the very erratic beat of her voice. Yamato was glancing up at her and his face was a perfect porcelain mask of feigned indifference. He was standing, his hands gripping the back of her couch, but Mimi noticed it was far too tight for him to be entirely okay. Immediately, she started regretting all she had said, but instead of muttering an apology, she kept her lips shut tight. It was, she reasoned, what he had been looking for.

"Well," he finally said. "You certainly gave it some thought." He removed himself from his position, drawing himself taller and squaring his shoulders. Mimi only looked at his face, trying to find a crack, a breath, _anything_ that would betray his thoughts, but his face remained blank. Yamato walked towards the door and wordlessly slipped his shoes on, opened the door and closed it with a quiet thud.

Once he was gone, Mimi realised she was trembling and the impossibility of what had just transpired hit her like a freight train. She walked to the kitchen, poured herself one, and two glasses of water. And then she felt the knot rise to her throat and she was inexplicably shored by what she had said, the way she had made his eyes look so dull when he looked at her. Quickly, half by muscle memory than actual thought, Mimi bolted towards the door and opened it, only to find him on the other side, fist raised as though he'd been about to knock.

He was surprised but Mimi was quicker than him and she tackled him, arms tight around his neck, face turned towards his chest.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "That was so horrible of me, I'm so sorry."

But Yamato, who had been stunned cold from her tight embrace, only finally lowered his hands around her, gently enveloping her within his arms.

"It's fine," he said quietly. "I knew all of that, Mimi. I just didn't think—I was _hoping_, ah..." and then he stopped, because she was looking up at him and they were so close... "You just caught me off-guard, that's all."

"Do you think I was unfair?" she asked him, her voice small.

"No," he answered honestly, in the way only he could. "I don't think I should've expected any less from you." He separated from her then, and she blushed as she realised how long she spent in his arms. The thought made her dizzy, somehow.

"I did consider it, you know," Mimi finally said, hugging herself instead. "_Before_."

Yamato took some time in answering and he looked like someone who was about to say something and then changed his mind, grasping for straws. "I can work on all those things, but at the end of the day..." he drew closer, placed his hand on her head and ruffled her hair affectionately, making her breath hitch— "You're just not my type." He ducked the swipe of her hand, and his laughter was all she could hear until he finally disappeared into the elevator down the hall, leaving her a mess of ups and downs, and thoughts of _what ifs_ and _should'ves_ and _maybes_.

* * *

**Notes:** Have yourselves another not-quite-sad little interlude. I think there was a lot going on in there in my mind, things I didn't really want to write but that were circling me all the time. I'll be very interested in reading if you've got any theories at all about what's happened/is happening in there.


	17. I carry (your heart) with me

**Notes: **The title was taken, somewhat unabashedly, from e.e. cummings' _I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)_.

[11/28/15]

* * *

_Being an only child made you selfish._

* * *

Sometimes she wonders about him and when she does, that sea-blue becomes so startlingly vivid that she needs to remind herself to breathe. Breath hitched, eyes glazed-over, fingers holding on to tendrils of white smoke. It takes her but a few seconds to adjust to the light, to air, to remember that her lungs cannot breathe water and that the pressure she feels, must go.

To think of him is, above all, to dream.

He has the looks for it—pale blond hair, sea-blue eyes, a soft, pink mouth that has been made for singing her name and kissing her lips, and biting down on all her insecurities.

_(Oh, and he did, he did.)_

Sometimes, even as the cold winter air bites at the exposed bits of her skin (a cheek, glossed lips, the tips of her manicured fingers), she finds it hard to forget the sunlight, the honeyed smell of summertime, remembering he was hers in a still suburban town. It's there in the clear blue skies _(I know, I know)_, the clear, ringing laughter of children; hair pulled up in a high, long ponytail (or a short, efficient one), the sweat on the back of his neck, between her breasts, down the length of his pale arms, running down a soft, curved navel ... the sweltering heat and the childish promise that it would never go away made it hard to think, then.

It's easy to take things one day at a time when the seasons fly so fast and every new day means new ways of finding him, of knowing him, of realising you love him. It's easy, when it's all play, no hard work, _or_, playing hard to get. It's easy when he's all bite, all sharp edges, hot breath and such a sweet, _sweet_ mouth and all you want is to bite that smirk off his lips, pry them open, peel him down to his second skin and tell him, _"here, wear me instead"_.

_Not_, she thinks, _that it matters now._

The sun has receded, summer has given way to autumn. In the holocaust of his eyes, Mimi has seen the seasons die once and again and, come winter, they're practically strangers again. It hasn't been one summer, one autumn, one winter, one spring; it has been innumerable autumns, harsh winters, so many dead springs, all the forgotten summers.

Oh, there have been others. Many, too many to count. But it never mattered if, at the end of an unbearably hot season, his cool breath was on her neck. It didn't matter if, after a few dazed, difficult weeks, her lips where on his collar and the names of all those girls were out the window, down the drain, in the shredder. He's still painted behind her eyelids and she is still stitched on the inside of his wrist, though it has been so long.

_(I don't know anyone else.)_

He's still sharp and, if she draws too close, she thinks he might still bite. She sees him on the other end of the lake, walking with a girl that, in her heart, he does not love. She can tell, because his hand hangs limply on his side and _if he loved her, _he would keep them in his pockets, not knowing what to do with them. But hers are out there, bearing the cold and she supposes the girl must be dying, aching to have him hold her (_or maybe it's her_), and she suffers to imagine that he will.

He doesn't, but this nameless stranger kisses his cheek upon leaving and it's too much for Mimi to take.

She doesn't even wait until the imposter is gone, doesn't even try to make it casual. She's there before he can wipe his cheek clean, before he can search for his phone; his eyes find her before he realises he's been looking.

"Mimi."

One word, only. Her name, only. And Mimi doesn't know what to do, is suddenly afraid, half-embarrassed, still indignant. She takes a small breath, runs a hand through her cheeks and pretends it's the cold, but smiles and laughs (_yours only)_.

"Yamato," she breathes out. "I thought it was you."

His hair is shorter than before, giving him a manly appearance that she wasn't ready for, knocks the breath out of her. The long tresses that framed him in their hot, sweaty youth are replaced by an efficient cut that makes her heart ache for all she's missed. Her hand darts out behind his neck, misses the tiny ponytail she used to tie for him (_but she swears she can feel him shiver_), and sighs.

"Yeah," he says, as if answering her question. "Sorry about that."

Mimi tugs on his hair, playfully.

"Let's have lunch," she says, and he, under heavy-lidded eyes, half-smiles.

"Yours or mine?" Yamato asks, and Mimi's heart skips a beat.

"Mine," she says, quietly, then louder. "If you want to."

Yamato shrugs, bends his head to nip at the skin on the inside of her wrist, then, when she shrieks, twines his fingers between his, crushing palms that, despite the biting cold, are slick with sweat.

_(Mine, mine, mine.) _

For better or for worse.


	18. Wanderlust

[12/15/15]

* * *

_You can't make homes out of human beings._

* * *

The idea of staying still gives him nausea, to this day. He thinks this is all Taichi—being unable to stay still, to quit moving, to pass on the pursue. But he knows that it is also him, and Natsuko, and Hiroaki, and all that they too, taught him. Yamato seeks the thrill of big cities; busy trains; empty, forgotten terraces; quaint little bars and family-owned businesses that will give him the anonimity that he craves.

He leaves for France that summer and Paris, in all its glory, welcomes him with open arms. But Paris tastes like expensive perfumes, _Ladurée_ macarons, fine wine, fresh bread, sharp cheese and sweet, _sweet_ organic honey. It is 1980 again and at the Rue Mouffetard, lovers embrace each other under starry skies, bathe clandestinely in secluded fountains and make love under a pregnant moon. But he finds only melancholy in the badly-lit joints where he plays his harmonica on Tuesdays and Saturdays and soon, even that isn't enough.

Yamato leaves, with half a heart on his hand and a curse on his lips.

New York City is more than scryscapers and heavy billboards; it is all bite, cold steel, sharp edges and it has been years since Yamato felt more at home. The harsh bright lights and deafening roar of traffic, the constant movement—these things, they hide the ugly, the bad, the obscene. _Yes_, Yamato thinks, he fits right into this place. But there's also Brooklyn and the second-hand bookstores, nouveau art expos, artisan beer, Italian pizza; the revival of a generation of yuppies that are quitting their safe jobs to pursue the romantic life of a boho-entrepreneur.

A part of him will always feel the wretched regret of never calling it home, but he can never bring himself to do so.

At last it is Natsuko who calls him back and though he is at first reluctant, his blood is burning to go back to the land that watched him grow. He is not impressed by the gigantic buildings, and it is not this that he will miss. He was born in the heart of Tokyo to sakuramocchi, okonomiyaki, warm sake (Lapis Lazuli), neko-neko, maid-cafés and love hotels. He finds that the years have not softened Japan, no more than they have softened him and his hard-given name and this, more than anything else, comforts him. Tokyo too is haughty, selfish, and proud.

Not that any of that means anything when he's staring at her, knowing in his heart that maybe home is the crook of her neck and the soft touch of her cheek. He finds in her traces of where he's been and he wonders pathetically if he has spent the last few years chasing down her ghost. All cities where she lived, caught between her teeth and rattling in her throat. The roads he walked, easy to follow in the blue veins of her body and he can't help but imagine how they'd travel the entire circumference of earth three point five times and he'd be _glad_ to unravel every last one of them. He can see the entire history of his forefathers in the graceful length of her fingers, the elegant column of her throat, and the way she looks at him is enough to make him want to cry.

She says, _"Look at the stars, Yama-chi!" _or else, _"Come here, Yama-kun," _or, _"Open your mouth, Yamato-san," _and, _"Touch me, Ya-ma-to." _And he can only look up, move closer, kiss her, love her, _fuck_ her into the headboard, always moving too fast, too dazed, flitting between feeling himself light as air and denser than mercury. She is not a place; she is _all_ places, the body of an atlas and countless routes and maps that always lead him back to her.

And he knows, with a bone-shattering certainty, that_ this is home_; her lips, her eyes, the slender curve of her foot and the ivory of her ribcage. And he knows, that her body is the place where love comes to die.

* * *

**Notes: **Writing is difficult. I don't know why, but there was absolutely nowhere I could include Mimi's name in without somehow disrupting the feeling I had been weaving since the beginning. It's a little choppy and maybe one day, when I am a better writer, I will be able to fix the transitions and edit this into the piece it deserves to be. For now, accept this humble attempt and love me, please.


	19. The Distance From Here

[01/09/16]

* * *

_We're better off as friends, you know?_

* * *

The setting was the large estate of Mimi's grandparents, an impressive place just outside Tokyo in Yokosuka, in the Kanagawa Prefecture. The occasion: yet to be determined. The cajoling had included multiple reasons why leaving the city was a great idea, that they needed to bond, and celebrate accomplishments, and life, and _youth_. As usual, it hadn't really mattered. No-one had the guts to stand up and tell Mimi she couldn't have a party.

And so he found himself there, surrounded by the crisp autumn air, gazing up at the moon and feeling the familiar bite of loneliness he always felt in these things. It was something that went beyond people, and it didn't matter if he was alone at home or here, enjoying a vastly generous barbeque with his closest friends. Somehow, it was a feeling Yamato couldn't quite shake off.

The girl in question stood with his brother, poring over the traditional grill area and looking back impressed at Ken-kun and Iori-kun, who seemed to know a lot about these things. There had originally been help preparing the food, but Mimi had felt that it stiffened up the ambiance, having people work while they had fun, so she had sent them on inside with strict orders to enjoy themselves for the night. The staff had been baffled, but Hiroko-san, who had been butler of the Tachikawas since before Mimi's father had married her mother, was used to his charge's eccentricities and had made sure that neither the food or drink ever ran out, whilst remaining unseen and unobtrusive. Yamato was impressed, and a touch amused.

His hand wrapped around his glass of _umeshu_, sipping lightly as he turned his back on the cheerful party, sighing softly. On his right, he saw him draw closer to her, his hand touching the small of her back in a polite, intimate gesture. She didn't flinch, didn't jump — but she inched just _that_ much closer to him, smiling benevolently as she took the steaming cup he offered.

"Do you want some more cider, Kururagi-san?" Sora asked, and the young man smiled politely, nodding his head.

"Yes, thank you, Takenouchi-san."

He watched his best friend pour his drink for him, look up at Yamato, and smile. He did his best, finding it difficult when Kururagi-san looked straight at him with his big, liquid brown eyes, and he turned away almost immediately. Of course, someone had to have seen it all.

"Does it bother you?" Taichi, who was never gentle, never soft, was looking at him strangely.

"No," he said, and the lie almost got stuck in his throat. "She's good, he's good to her. I'm happy."

He felt her before she spoke, turned just a fraction before her hand touched his arm.

"Yamato-kun, Taichi-kun!" she exclaimed happily, holding a bottle of sweet plum wine in her hand. "Are you having fun?"

"The food's fantastic," Taichi said, at the same time Yamato added, "It's a great party."

Yamato shot him a half-glare, but Mimi laughed her high, sweet laughter, and he was forced to look back at her.

"I'm happy you like it, Taichi! There's tons to go around. _Trust me._" She turned to them, shaking the bottle in her hand, and Yamato, knowing it was rude to decline, offered his half-empty glass while Taichi took a drink to make room for his. Mimi poured their drinks quickly and efficiently and, after a few more minutes of light small talk and jokes, left their side. His eyes followed her back to the table, laughing next to Miyako, pushing back Ken's hair, leaning against Takeru's arm...

It felt not very long ago, _he_ was the receptor of those small touches and bright smiles. It was his arm she leaned against, his hair she pushed back, his neck she held on to. And now those little touches were spread amongst her friends and he, who by all means should've been standing next to her, was separated by an invisible wall that kept him out. He watched Suzaku come closer when Mimi called him, the faint smile on his face and the blush on his cheeks once she hugged him, nipped his neck, kissed his lips. And_ God, she was so beautiful,_ always had been. But this was good, he reminded himself, this was _safe_. In the distance from here to there, Mimi could be everything he had ever wanted, and everything he had never asked for. Here, the impossibility of not knowing how to love her, did not hurt as much.

Yamato turned to look at her, and she was busy chewing a prime cut of _toro_, having difficulty keeping her smile from spreading out. Her eyes rose and met his and Yamato smiled softly, tipping his glass towards her. Just a twinkle in her eye, a small, involuntary blush, and she was back in Suzaku's arms and he had turned his back on her, looking at Taichi.

"It's better this way," he shrugged, took a swig and the lie tasted sweeter. "For both of us."

* * *

**Notes: ** Kururugi Suzaku is a character from _Code Geass_ and I love him dearly, (can you tell?).


	20. On This Day and Time

**Notes:** Irrelevant fact, I started this on Owen Hargreaves' birthday (GGMU!).

[02/04/16]

* * *

_You never learned how to wait._

* * *

If time heals all wounds, and if it does it so well that the scars are invisible, then that does a very strange thing to a person. It is easy to forget, when you haven't seen his face in weeks, haven't kissed his mouth in years, haven't breathed his name into his mouth in so long, you can't remember what he tastes like. He used to be sweet, ripe as a peach (and God, he used to _hate it_ when you said that, _ripe as a peach_), crisp, with a sweetly curved mouth and soft, creamy skin that smelled like winter.

Clocks and calendars are a thing of the past, of so many pasts, not enough presents, never the future, never _ever_ the future. It's been five minutes since you called him, ten minutes since he said he was on his way, an hour since he last answered your message. It's been a fortnight, two days since he hasn't been over, one week, three months, _six fucking years_ since he last told you he loved you. You know, _you've counted_. Your heart can take a break, it's done so before, but you swear every time it gets harder, more brittle, so easily thrown away.

So it's easy to forget that, under your gloved hands, skin has healed. There are no marks, nothing that can betray the fact that, once upon a blue moon, you knew each other. Not in the way his then girlfriend, now ex-wife, does; it's different, so very different. You _knew_ him, and he knew you, too. He knew how you took your coffee (two cubes of sugar, one dash of milk, a sprinkle of cinnamon); you knew that, when he sleeps, he always faces North. He knew that the colour of your eyes was that of molten gold, that wearing blue was something you did for him, that love was all that was left after you took off your gloves, your make-up, all your clothes.

And love is his old watch on your thin wrist, and heavy-lidded eyes lined with sleep and the affection you once felt for each other.

And love is how he waves at you as he steps inside the old café, how his eyes grow bright for just a second, just enough for you to see it, to know it's yours.

And love is also black tea, hot, a hint of cardamom, pursed lips over cups and never again over each other.


	21. We Built the Galaxies

**Notes:** Almost, but not quite.

[02/24/16]

* * *

_Your hands are too small; I can't give you what I am._

* * *

There are some people whose mere presence seems to alter the course of the universe. Sitting out in the balcony, smoking an old, stale cigarette, he thought about how infinitely small he was, how pathetically unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and how unlikely it seemed that small actions changed the world. He thought about holding the universe in the palm of his hands, a journey of a thousand days and a thousand nights to behold the entirety of the world, of _his_ finite universe suspended in midair by the grace of One whose perfect design is unfathomable. Yamato had never considered himself an Existentialist but _man_, smoking did _things _to him.

He had made the decision of leaving, long before he told her he had. The simpler truth was that he remembered Natsuko best as she looked the day she left him and his father, the white floral dress she wore, and how he couldn't help but think it was appropriate for the death of something. Mimi isn't wearing white, and she isn't wearing flowers. Her lavender coat is simple and delicate, adding a girlish touch to her already beautiful frame. He thought about the first time he told her he loved her, how beautiful she had been then, too. She always will be, and he knows that at least, he won't forget.

The way she stares at him is almost enough to make him reach for another cigarette. Almost, but not quite.

Mimi surprises him by not crying, instead holding on to her porcelain cup and taking a long, silent sip. It is this that baffles him, grits his nerves. The silence grows between them, ugly and opressive and he wants to shake her, tell her _I'm leaving and you can't stop me_. But he can see the answer clearly in her honey eyes: she understands, and she will not lift a finger to stop him. Of course, he shouldn't have expected her to. What does she know, of the mysteries of the universe? What can she, with her perfect life, possibly desire out of the unknown? Unreasonably angry, Yamato stands and throws a couple of bills on the table; leaves briskly before he decides to stay.

When he returned home late that night, the flat was completely barren. He hadn't realised before how much space Mimi occupied in his life and was momentarily stunned to see how empty and unwelcome his apartment was without her to warm it for him. But the decision was made and the bed, at least, was his. He slept soundly after a couple of drinks, unable somehow to get rid of her scent which lingered all around him.

It took him months to understand how important touch is for humans.

He came back three years after he first left for JAXA, a completely changed man that for all intents and purposes had remained the same. His flat has been rented to a couple of college kids and his brother does not live in the city. He hadn't seen Natsuko since before he left and can already imagine her blue eyes pooling with tears when he saw her; he decides to stay in a hotel, at least while he finds a new apartment. It won't take him long; the space program, if nothing else, pays tremendously well. He has been back for two weeks now and he is still adjusting to life away from the station, when he first sees her.

She is wearing an emerald green formfitting dress that brings out the gold in her eyes, and a lot more in him. For a moment he can't stop looking, can't stop thinking, can't move. She turns around, eyes passing over him without a speck of recognition and he breathes out but then they're back on him, and she actually gasps.

"Yamato?" she calls out as if unsure but she is already moving and when she reaches him he feels the pain of her stopping before she reached out to hug him. He is shocked by this, how it _hurts_ that she didn't touch him yet.

"You're back," she says, lips trembling.

In his dream, this is when he kisses her. There, in the middle of the street, with people walking around them not daring to touch and interrupt them. In this dream Mimi is upset, she cries but she holds on desperately to his neck and she kisses forgiveness into his mouth, and he wipes the bitterness and the terrible loneliness of the past three years away.

This is not his dream.

In this scenario, Mimi is happy to see him, she truly is, but she doesn't cry. She doesn't even hug him though she holds on to his forearm for a bit and squeezes affectionately. Here, she is a successful business owner, the fancy restaurant down the street is hers, (_Can you believe it?)_, and she has done _so_ much since he left. Traveled the world, pursued her dream, found the love of her life. He's at the restaurant too, and (_Would you like to meet him? Oh, I can't believe you're home!_) Yamato doesn't need to hear that he's a famous football player to know he will instantly hate him. But Mimi, in one of those rare moments of clarity, suddenly stops talking. She blushes prettily and he smiles haughtily, and it is as though three years have never passed.

She touches his cheek, kisses him tenderly.

"Welcome home," she says and he says _thank you_, because in her hands she holds the truth, his happiness locked in her gold band and the knowledge that he could have given her everything too, if he had only known. But his Mimi was never the kind to wait, and he should have known that from the very beginning. A series of tiny, infinite possibilites still form in the back of his mind, thwarted by the knowledge that she is no longer his to hold and that _in this world_, he has already been denied.


	22. For Destruction, Ice

[03/03/16]

* * *

_Ice is a difficult thing to love._

* * *

They meet again years later, at the TV station where he worked. At first she had been surprised, apprehensive, a little embarrassed. She had almost run then, but she reminded herself that she wasn't here as some intern, recent graduate looking for a job—this was _her_ show, _her_ time, and he knew that. Still, a little awkwardness had to be expected. The last time they had met had been under far different circumstances; he was working on fixing his estranged relationship with his youngest son and Mimi was trying her best to fit into the family she expected to marry into.

It hadn't worked out exactly right for either of them though, and it surprised neither of them when that became their parting point. His invitation to coffee, on the other hand, surprises them both. The first cup is small talk, _How are you, Ishida-san?_ and _I've been very impressed with your work, Tachikawa-san_, and she can feel the strangeness of it stirring in her belly. This is the same man that often caught her (unapologetically) making out with his son on the couch, floor, bed, kitchen counter, who used to make him walk her home and then drove out to get him only because he wanted to make sure they had plenty of time to talk. This man was also the person she last saw, the day she finally left. Somehow, the memory of his dark eyes and that sad look never left.

The second cup ends up with her laughing as he lets her know how nervous she's making most of his team. _They're easily intimidated_, he admits, but it doesn't help that she's so pretty, and successful, and smiles as brightly as she does. He catches himself at the last moment, drinking his coffee as they both refuse to acknowledge what he has said out loud. There's no need to, because Mimi knows she's a lovely young woman and he always knew she'd grow up into this. The only thing is, he didn't expect that she'd also be alone.

It's been two hours and three cups later, they still sit together, each thinking of his or her own failure and how they missed the signs, how they would have done a number of things differently if they could. Mimi thinks that maybe, she would've left sooner, wouldn't have kept her eyes shut to what she had known in her heart to be true. Yamato had been in love with her, had loved her madly even, but what he and she considered _eternal_ and _true_, were far too different things. Hiroaki, on the other hand, thinks that if he had listened, if he had seen it before, he would've never glanced back at a Natsuko that wouldn't ever be his, not really.

"Sometimes, I think he's just like me," he says after a moment, and he's looking at her strangely. "But the truth is, he's always been more like his mother."

"Natsuko-san..."

"Left, and didn't once glance back."

He's quiet after that, and she is no longer smiling. Outside, the snow falls heavily. It's not like they show on Christmas TV specials, the snowflakes aren't beautiful, or perfect; it's cold and the snow clumps on the sidewalks and the air bites into her exposed skin. She draws her coat tighter around herself, stealing a glance at him. He hasn't had a smoke in over three hours and she supposes he's really itching for one. Still they walk, and still his fingers twitch inside his pockets.

As they draw nearer to Shibuya, she feels lost in the anonymity for a moment. So many people here don't know her name, or his, though they watch their televisions every evening. She walks further from the stores, on to the parks that have been abandoned in a search for the warmth and comfort of large department stores. Hiroaki glances at her shivering form, red nose, long hair. It has been so many years since he came to terms with his divorce, how he just didn't make his then-wife happy. But looking at Mimi, he can't possibly imagine why she wasn't enough for his son. There's no way around it—they're both here, now, _together_, because other people had left them. That it was his son only made him feel worse, like he somehow had a part in the unhappiness life dealt to this girl and he had been thinking about this when he asked her for coffee, perhaps, a little nod to say _I know what it's like_.

Mimi thinks of Yamato, how he hates the snow, despite what everyone thinks. It hadn't occurred to her before today, that she might have had an idea why. She turns around in the semi-deserted brick road, stands in front of her would-have-been-father-in-law and kisses him full on the mouth. He doesn't react—he doesn't kiss her back, and does nothing to push her away. A couple of seconds pass and Mimi steps back, sighing, and he sees her again for what she is, alone and heartbroken.

"I still love him. He doesn't even know I'm back, and I still love him." Her hand clutches her breast, desperately. "Does it ever stop burning?"

His hand touches her cheek, but she is looking past him, searching already for someone else.

"You're warm," she murmurs, and Hiroaki hesitates before pushing her hair out of her face.

"It's hard, when you're warm-skinned," he begins softly, the words clumsy on his usually uncouth tongue, "to distinguish fire, from frost."

She is quiet, but he can see the exact moment when she understands, and it is almost enough to break his heart all over again.

"Was Natsuko-san ever this cold?"

He smiles so briefly that Mimi is almost afraid to blink. But then he shrugs like it isn't important, like this isn't a part of their life anymore.

"Ice burns too, Mimi-san."

He finally does take out a cigarette, lighting it despite knowing the wind will consume most of it anyway. He takes a long drag, tries to protect the small flame.

It's helpless, he knows, but so are they.

* * *

**Notes:** I can't believe it's been almost a year since I started these, and there's only eight more chapters to go. This is both exciting and daunting, so very daunting.


	23. The Way (We Fall)

[03/28/16]

* * *

_No, he loves me. He just makes me cry a lot._

* * *

It is like this: outside, the rain falls in a gray, relentless curtain, but inside all is gay and bright, and smells like gingerbread, and eggnong, and minty chocolate. Mimi smiles as Hikari flashes a picture with a classic Polaroid, a gift she had helped pick herself. In the picture, her teeth glisten and nobody notices her eyes do, too. Underneath uneven wool Christmas sweaters, his fingers tease the discs of her column and she has to suppress a gasp, or a giggle, or a moan.

His hands are like art; a soft palm here, a calloused pad there. He touches with a purpose, but far less than she'd like and soon, he has busied himself with champagne and an old, out-of-tune guitar, and she is kneading dough and pushing blackberries into tiny, artsy folds. From the other side of the room he watches her, and when midnight comes she is not surprised by the kiss he plants on her lips.

They meet under the mistletoe, but end up on the roof, beneath a blanket of stars and a carpet of crisp gray snow. Soft mounds of flesh, curious, attentive buds of nerves, sad, berry-red lips. He weighs a breast in his hand and he marvels at the softness of it, and she wonders why he couldn't do that sooner. He only says he doesn't like being rushed, and now she can feel the cold air on her back, but once again it is far too late.

It is like this: the way he touched her that night; he was more than fingers, and palms, and hooded eyes, and sharp_ teeth, teeth, teeth_. And she knows, in her heart, and in her gut, that she could Sunder the world four times over, and still love him; and that is, perhaps, why and how she did. And that is, perhaps, why she cannot look away when he does.

It is the day before Christmas, and she already knows where this ends. When she speaks his name (大和), she is kissing his father, and grandfather, and all the men before him who have conspired to give him a name so sharp, and hard, and old. They don't speak when he is taciturn like that, and she is reminded of that story about a gilded violin, and how sad it was that for all it was worth, it could not play music.

_"You are so beautiful,"_ he murmurs for the umpteenth time, biting on her collarbones, still tasting salt.

Loving Yamato does not make her patient, or noble, or kind. It is hard, the effort of it stealing the breath out of her and making her feel like a delinquent, like she is stealing time and love that do not belong to her, or joint-smoking hearts behind school buildings. Like he is hurting, and maybe she wants to save him. And maybe it's beautiful, but mostly it's real.

And mostly, it hurts.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **There is a poem I read once and I only remembered the last line, which is a variation of the one here. It's funny, how these things come to you like that. The characters between parenthesis are the actual kanji for Yamato's name. It felt important to include that, somehow.


	24. Manhattan Blues

**Author's Note: **The events hereby written may or may not be real. Twenty-four down, six to go.

* * *

[25/06/16]

* * *

_She lived too far away, I could never ask her to come back._

* * *

Bright-eyed and smiling, she waves from the other side of the terminal. Hands in his pockets, feet on the ground, his eyes are fixed on her and how she has let her hair grow long again; the faded rose gold makes her look like something out of this world, a watered down memory of someone he used to love.

They were only children when they met and the world was a different place, then. It has been years, and in time, they have grown out, spread their roots, sought different ways. They are no longer the same people who met in that place, but some days it feels like they could still be. Today is going to be one of those days, Yamato can already tell. The customary greetings, the presents — everyone's eyes and fingers and mouths linger too long on her, and he has to check himself before old, old things begin to stir.

He's still thinking about it hours later, and when she gives him that knowing look he knows he's already set himself up for failure.

"Is something the matter?"

Softly, slowly, he blinks. She knows him well enough by now to understand this as a denial, not a dismissal, and her soft mouth curves into a small frown. She is afraid to ask, still walking on eggshells whenever they discuss his personal life, never knowing how much is too much for her to know. It has gotten better with the years, but old habits die hard and she can feel herself biting down on her tongue to avoid bombarding him with questions.

"Take-kun said Mimi-chan came to visit," she says, and his eyes slide down to hers too fast to be merely coincidental. Unsmiling, she holds his gaze over her cup of tea. He doesn't say anything, and so she presses on. "Have you seen her yet?"

Raising his eyebrows, he stretches his long legs under the table, reaching out for a menu.

"I have."

"Was it ...?"

"It was okay."

She doesn't say anything and for a while, he doesn't either. He's thinking about all the ways in which it was _not_ okay, still unable to forget the look in her eyes when he announced he had to go. He keeps saying it over and over in his head, _'I'm sorry, I have to see someone',_ and tries to convince himself this is why he did it. But the truth is that she said _'It's all so different, back home'_, and it was as if she was shot him in the knee.

"She has a life, back there," he murmurs quietly, fingers still over the ceramic ear of his mug. "And I'm not a part of it."

The admission is simple, less painful than he thought it would be. He steals a glance across the table, finds her looking carefully into her drink, thin eyebrows crinkling in concentration. Her grip on the cup slackens as she realises he's staring, and she throws her short hair back, sighing.

"You have a life here too, Yamato," and then adds, "A good one."

"Yeah," he says, and his smile is softer, more gentle. He reaches out and places his hand over hers, pressing. "It is."

When she says good-bye, he leans closer so she can kiss his cheek.

"Mimi-chan is a sweet girl," Natsuko says. "But you're a sweet boy too, Yamato-kun. Don't let this make you bitter."

And she smiles, like she knows what she's talking about.

_She does,_ he reminds himself, and that knowledge is reassuring.

"I'll see you next week, _kaasan_."

His apartment is blissfully empty, dark when he comes home. His phone hasn't stopped buzzing and he silences it, places it carefully on the coffee table. In the dark of his living room, he does not have to smile anymore. His hand rubs his jaw and he licks his lips. The whole thing seems plucked out of a distant time, an ancient photograph, a silent film starring someone else.

Cutting, like a knife, he murmurs, "She doesn't love me anymore."

Then louder, "She doesn't love me anymore."

Finally, he falls back on the couch, runs his pale fingers over thin golden hair, throws his head back and, disbelieving, laughs.

"She doesn't love me anymore."

In the dead of night, he has no choice but to believe it.


	25. Gravity's Pull

**Author's Note: **I should warn you about the silly metaphors but, I like to think it's very IC. You can't tell, but I've been working on this one for _weeks_.

* * *

[05/31/16]

* * *

_You're in love with someone else._

* * *

It wasn't the kind of thing one announced so casually, over dinner; Jyou had warned him as much. There had been little clapping, a lot of confusion, a few stupid questions and indignant remarks, courtesy of the eldest Yagami and youngest Motomiya. Sora had hugged him, then kissed him in the mouth and wished him luck but he had caught her sobbing quietly into Jyou's chest not ten minutes later. Koushiro had been excited; Iori had been downright impressed. Miyako, confused, had turned to Ken, "He's joking, right?", but Ken only shook his hand, wished him well. He knew Ken, at least, _meant_ it.

He had figured the party would end sooner, but it had continued well into the night, and he had found them more compliant, laughing harder, holding him longer. It was partly the liquor, he knew, but it was also _them_, and how much they all loved him. His parents had reacted similarly, when they heard. In a stark difference from when he was six and decided he wanted to be an _astronaut_, no-one laughed. His father never got to finish that one cigarette, crushed on the floor as he wondered, _"Blimey, I never..." _His mother had cried then, and he had held her like she failed to hold him when he was a child and it felt as though both of them redeemed something that night.

But _she_ had slipped out quietly before he could gauge a reaction, before anyone could stop her. He had ached to follow her, then, but Taichi beat him to it and he had to steel himself to stay inside, his back turned towards the open balcony doors for as long as he dared. When Taichi came back, brow deeply furrowed and fingers stretched towards the nearest cooler, Yamato had to feign disinterest, bring the can to his lips for fear of asking, _"So?"._

"If I go back out there, I can't guarantee I'm coming back in," he said after one agonizingly long drink. "She's being impossible."

Yamato sighed, holding two beers in his hand.

"Yeah, I'd drink more if I were you," Taichi said dubiously, but Yamato only smiled.

"It's a peace offering," he clarified, turning his back to him and wishing, for a moment, that he hadn't.

A pleasant breeze cooled the summer night, and Yamato was rewarded with the sight of her sitting out near the building's fire escape, legs dangling perilously off the ledge. Her shoes were off and her toes were painted a bright bubblegum pink.

"Nice shoes," he said, hoping to make her smile instead of squaring her shoulders at him.

"Yeah," she murmured, frowning. "I really like them."

He sat down next to her, offering a beer and trying not to make anything of the way she tensed when their shoulders touched.

He gazed out at the city lights and they remained that way until the silence became too unbearable for him.

"You haven't said anything," he eyed her carefully. "You just left."

Inside, he had to smother the tiny bit of traitorous hope that sprang to life. The reproaching look she gave him was almost enough to make him feel sorry he even said it but at this point ... anything was game.

"What do you want me to say?" she asked, suddenly serious. "_You're _leaving_._"

"You can say anything. Say ... you'll miss me."

"Aren't you _scared_?" She turned her pretty face away from him and upwards, towards the sky. It was too dark to see her, but he thought she may have been crying. "Doesn't it make you sad?"A pause. "Aren't you going to miss _me_?"

The way she asked made his heart hurt and he almost said it, then.

"It's different for me," he finally said, and Mimi wanted to hit him, hard. In his pretty face, his taut stomach, his _perfect_ jaw. But he didn't relent, instead, took another long swig and swallowed quietly. "You know that."

When he turned to her she was chewing on her glossy bottom lip, bottle clutched tightly beneath pale fingers.

"I didn't want to lose them, you know," she said, very quietly. "That's why I took them off."

_"Ahhh..." _he said, the tiniest hint of a bitter smile touching his lips. "That was clever of you."

"It wasn't, really." Mimi blushed, casting her eyes downwards.

A loud noise coming from inside made them both snap back to attention. In the half-light they could make out someone standing on a table, singing greeted by a roar of laughter and cheers.

"Is that Taichi?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny that."

_"Yama."_

"He was upset before, you know," he sighed. "When you came out here."

"He knows how I feel about you," she brought her feet up, hugging her knees. "Of course, he hates it."

Yamato took a deep breath before finishing off the rest of his beer, trying not to gloat, finding a way to stifle that persistent hope once more. That was gone, and one conversation wouldn't change it.

"He shouldn't," he finally said, matter-of-factly. "You're in love with him."

Instead of denying it, she simply crawled over to him, slipping her feet inside her dainty shoes once more. She took the bottle from his hand, placed it next to her own, both now empty. She took his face in her hands, looked him straight in the eye and kissed him, hard. And he couldn't help the way his mouth curved around hers, couldn't help reaching out with his hand to pull her closer from the back of her neck, couldn't help wanting to steal her away from Taichi, right then. And when she stopped, and kissed his cheek and he realised she _was _crying, he couldn't help but loving her _too, more, always_.

"I'll miss you," she said, tapping his cheek affectionately. "Let's lie down for a bit and make Taichi mad, yeah?"

He was laughing before he knew it, lying down on the cold concrete, looking up at the stars. Mimi pointed at constellations, drew fake horoscopes, warned him of leaving the house on a waxing moon when Venus was in Aquarius and he only laughed harder, trying to suffocate the ache in his heart that told him she was the only celestial body he needed and that, were it not for Taichi, it would've been him.

_Should've_ been him.

"Mimi?"

"Yes?"

Fingers brushing against hers, he squeezed.

"I'll miss you, too."


	26. Bitte

**Author's Note: **While there is no excuse for my absence or the lack of coherence in this piece, I can only tell you it was structured at strange moments in the past few months and that, at last, I have nothing to say for how it ends.

* * *

[08/29/16]

* * *

_You were meant to be loved harder._

* * *

The first thing he notices about her is that she's beautiful, more than he could've hoped for from his friend's distorted, often exaggerated descriptions. But she has beautiful red hair (_natural!_ she insists), and slightly golden skin that makes his fingers tingle as he imagines himself brushing them, so very lightly, over her tan shoulders. Her eyes look like rubies under the setting sun and he tells her thus, making her blush a furious crimson that clashes horribly with her hair. He laughs, looking up at her from behind a curtain of dark lashes and wonders why it couldn't have been this easy, with her.

"It's funny, how these things happen, right?"

_No._

"Yes," he laughs, holding her hand briefly. "It is."

"I wanted to hate you," she admits with a laugh. "Just to spite him, you know?"

He hides his smile behind his glass, drowns it in white wine before thinking, _I hated myself, too_.

"He has that effect on people."

"God, he really does. I _hate_ him, sometimes."

He nods, thankful despite his words, humbled despite his actions. He was but a common link between them, a fixed point of encounter for something that otherwise would've never happened, could've never because his heart had never been in it to begin with. But however sparce his attention, Taichi's heart is always in the right place and he'd always want the best for his friends.

"You are—," and he leans closer over the table, brushing a strand of short red hair behind her ear.

_You are not her, you are not her, you are not her._

"—so dear to me."

It's nothing short of amazing how she fits right into his little family; even Natsuko likes to have her over for dinner. They have been dating for over a year now, just shy of sixteen months and she is everything he had never imagined she would be. Except the one thing she is not, which is the only thing he wants her to be and the only thing he needs her to never become.

Sora takes a moment, bites down on a thin crimson-tinted lip and leans forward, for a kiss.

"I love you."

_Listen. I love you, Yamato. Okay?_

The lines blur for a moment and he can't — he can't _breathe_, so he counts backwards from ten until her lips stop tasting like someone else's name and the heartbreak that story left him with. This is _now_, and that was _then _and he has long since learned not to blend those two because his mother told him _when you love do it soft and do it kind_, but she had never warned him against _this_. Nothing could prepare him for the searing melancholy she would leave him with or how empty he feels after giving her everything and realising it can never be enough.

So his hand encloses around hers and he brings it to his lips, which tremble against her warm, golden skin.

"I know."

_I love you too. You know that, don't you? Don't you, Mimi?_


	27. Song of Cicadas

[09/12/16]

* * *

_I cannot love what I cannot understand._

* * *

sometimes it's a bit like opening your mouth and saying  
—_you don't know what you do to me, still_  
like it's two years prior  
and i don't know how to say good-bye  
and i don't have to  
i'm staying tonight (and so are you)

the next time we meet  
i will have forgotten the way you taste  
and it will be so sweet  
even (more so)  
if you love someone else

that summer the cicadas sang  
and peaches ripened too soon  
too sweet for our aching teeth

—and splintered hearts  
—and me  
—and you  
—and what we could have been


	28. Ruins

**Author's Note: **This was supposed to be a happy, mellow chapter but I cannot be trusted.

* * *

[15/11/16]

* * *

_You exist elsewhere and within me._

* * *

He wishes he wasn't drunk when he hears it. He doesn't know what they're saying now, doesn't know what they're doing, but he can see Sora smiling politely as she looks at the little velvet box and Jyou's blue eyes are burning straight into him. He doesn't know how to wave it off without drawing more attention to himself so he takes another gulp but it has turned to sand in his mouth and what little is left of his pride stops him from spitting it out.

He stands up, wiping his mouth on the back of a napkin and Taichi's hand encloses around his wrist. He wants to yell _"fuck off",_ but he only tugs softly, smiles tight-lipped.

"I have to go."

"But we're celebrating."

He stops and he thinks they all may be holding their breaths but at the last minute only mutters, "Don't let me stop you," and leaves.

.

.

"Open the door."

The world is still spinning and he doesn't know how to make it stop, so he closes his eyes and wishes the banging on the door away. It doesn't leave (he never does), and finally Yamato opens when Taichi is just about to kick the door down.

"Do you mind?"

"I can't believe you just left like that."

He lets himself in, like a typhoon, and Yamato sighs wearily as he closes the door.

"I'm busy."

"Doing _what_?" Taichi asks, and Yamato wants to say _dying_, but he only shrugs and sits quietly on one of the low couches.

"I got a headache."

"Since when?"

"About a second ago."

Taichi stands, uncharacteristically angry. Yamato is too drunk and maybe too heartbroken to care.

"You're one of my best friends," he says, voice low. "You're supposed to be happy for me."

He leaves before Yamato has a chance to say something, anything.

.

.

He sees her the next day and runs away before she can notice he was there, fearing a betrayal too close to home. He is light on his feet, lighter than the cigarette that somehow wounds itself between long, pale fingers as the smoke cleanses the air around him, turns it into something he can more or less breathe.

"That'll kill you someday, you know."

Eyes sharpened, he turns towards her with a disdainful curl on his mouth.

"Might as well," he exhales.

Her fingers are too warm, too thin, too much ... _not her, not her, _and he has to stop himself from yanking his arm from under them. Instead, he returns her pitying look with one that lacks entirely any warmth. He can't stand his own reflection in her round spectacles and closes his eyes, pretending to be enjoying the burning in his lungs.

Then he remembers.

"It'll kill you, too."

.

.

There are fireflies circling the surface of the lake and the humbugs strike a chord from somewhere far gone, a childhood he doesn't remember as being entirely his. The party is elegant, intimate and he thinks, faintly, _this is how it ends_.

"When I die," he says, unprompted but sure this is what he wants, "I'd like my wake to be like this."

Koushiro offers him a small, nervous laugh.

"Don't let Mimi-san hear you say that," he breathes, hiding behind a glass of cool summer red wine. "It's her engagement party."

His breath hitches for one, two, three heartbeats.

Then, he chuckles.

.

.

The way she looked in that blue dress haunts him all day and it takes three full glasses to drown the memory of her in it that night.

.

.

He gropes for her upstairs, in the back of the car, in the otherwise unused guest room at her mother's flat. Some nights, her body is soft and flushed like flowers fresh from the picking and other nights, her body is slender like the back of a handgun. He never knows which one is worse, which one he can't stand, which tastes fouler — the salt on her cheeks or the blood on his four knuckles, the aftermath.

"Do you love her?" she asks one night and he looks at her like he wants to die.

And maybe he does, so she never asks again.

.

.

Sometimes, the children-they-once-were come out to play and the bedroom turns into a make-believe place. Sometimes, they talk.

"Why do you suppose, they call it _making love?_"

"They were tired," he answers, shifting on the bed, eyes closed against her hair — _all shades of wrong, too straight, too short._

"Of what?"

His hand finds her wet cunt and his tongue finds her mouth, biting down, hard.

"Of fucking."

.

.

She never loved him but he was heat at the peak of summer and she was ripe like the sweetest peach he had ever sunk his teeth in. The milky touch of her skin and the sounds she made when she came, memories he kept like flowers tucked between the pages of old hymnals. His fingers worked themselves upon every expanse of soft tissue, bone and muscle and he knew even then that he would always starve.

"Is this — is this good for you?"

It was like fruit between her legs, just wet enough. He swallowed one wanton moan after another and when they were done and she could taste herself in him, her laughter purred like a feline, something not entirely human.

"I think I _love_ you."

.

.

Her sniffles wake him up and he sits, wondering if he should touch her.

"Why are you crying?"

"It's nothing, I'm sorry. Go back to sleep—," she says, but the phone is on her hand and then it is in his before she can even finish whimpering.

The sight of her wearing all white, eyes bright and the caption reads, '_I found the one'._

He doesn't know how to comfort Miyako and she has never known how to comfort him either so the phone is left on the floor and the screen blacks out while he tries to find forgiveness in the shape of her body, slaughtering all the love he has for another woman every time his body slams into this one, like cars on a crash test site.

The pain he feels is old, dull and the wounds are opening anew. Yamato wonders, not for the first time, if this is how it feels to die.

.

.

They marry in the spring, when the cherries are in bloom.

The ceremony is everything he had ever imagined for her and she looks just the way she did when they were sixteen and sweet, reckless and falling in and out of love. Taichi's eyes are glossy and he cannot help the heat behind his own when she looks at him so full of promise and love. Yamato stands next to Koushiro — the best man, always the better man, and never sees the knife that twists between his ribs when they kiss as husband and wife.

_I object, I object, I object._

His whole body is in protest but he clasps Taichi's hand and kisses Mimi's cheek and, because he can't help it (never can, not with her, not here, not today), his fingers dig into her waist.

"You deserve to be happy."

Miyako is watching from the stands and he offers her a sour smile, not missing how her hand is clasped tightly in Ken's.

.

.

The world is tinted in hues of brown and his eyes look like an unkempt pool of their youth. In the two years they have been apart, the weight on his chest has lessened, the noose around his neck no longer tight enough to bruise. He has turned himself into his work, his life, the girlfriend he expects one day to make his wife.

"I'm working," he says without looking.

"Don't let me stop you."

He pauses, glancing up.

"Yagami Mimi," his assistant announces, flustered.

"A friend."

Her arms are around his neck and it is altogether too warm, too familiar, too dangerous.

And years of practice won't allow him to hesitate in holding her back.

.

.

It's not that she is disenchanted with married life. The home they have is everything she had ever wanted, everything she had ever dreamed. She has a loving husband that only dreams of making her happy and she knows this, even says it as his hand reaches out for hers. Sometimes, she says so when she's naked and half asleep.

"History repeats itself," she says, her shoulder falling in a disdainful shrug he knows all too well.

He takes a sip of warm mulled wine, shaking his head. _Not for us_, he thinks, _not for us_.

But hearts are dumb things and he can barely keep his under his skin when it so longs to be ripped out and go back to her.

"Are you miserable?" he asks, dreading the answer.

"No," she says, her smile weaker now. "Would you like me to be?"

"No," he says, scoffing, eyes downcast. "_Yes_."

She is closer now, closer than she has been in years and the table and all that is between them has been all but forgotten.

_"Yes, what?"_ she asks, a ghost of her lips brushing his as their foreheads touch.

"Yes, I want you to be miserable."

.

.

Sometimes he wants to kill her, kill _him_, kill himself, then. In the middle of it he realises — too late for realisations, too late for warnings of girls who burn too bright and boys who drown at sea, that this isn't what they meant when they thought of _making love_. Surely nothing like this can be called that, not when it's ugly, and selfish and unkind? Not when he wants to slam into her and make her cry, surely not, when she begs him to do just that?

When he tells her, _"I want to fuck you until I die,"_ he means he wants to fuck her until he dies, because it has gotten too painful, has gone on for too long for him to stop. He finds himself sleepless most nights and she is running out of lullabies and he knows, he _knows_ it is mental to keep letting her suck down on his blood. Surely _this_ _time_ she will finally kill him.

Instead she tells him how all this, and_ love,_ will ruin them.

Yamato knows it already has.


End file.
